Pastor Emory’s message about loving our enemies was aimed at me. Why not title the message “Shelby Pearce is not your enemy. Just love her and everything will be okay”?

I wish. Anxiety reached out to consume me. If I wasn’t careful, I’d slip into paralyzing depression. My release from prison and my hope of a better future needed more than over-the-top encouragement on the part of the pastor. Surely his faith hadn’t overshadowed the reality of having a convicted felon in the midst of his congregation.

I had met Mrs. Emory today, and she appeared not exactly friendly but cordial. She might have objected to her husband’s donation to my jewelry business, or maybe the tension about my arrival had moved him not to tell her. How many problems had I caused? Amy-Jo’s business seemed incredibly busy, but my observations were before the newspaper article.

Leave it alone.

I was overthinking, overreacting, not weighing the facts, and leaving God out of the picture. Besides, I suspected who’d instigated the problems—Officer Hughes or Special Agent McClure.

But bitterness only served to harden hearts and build impregnable walls. The people of Valleysburg needed time to accept me just like I needed time to work through many of their glares and remarks. No wonder unforgiveness stopped so many people from ever finding peace. I struggled with forgiving those who’d wronged me . . . even Marissa, who’d shed tears of gratitude when I stepped forward to take the blame for Travis’s death.

I was determined to find beauty in small things.

Good things had happened this week—new friendships, an enjoyable job, an unexpected furry companion, and an opportunity to sell my jewelry glistened like precious gems and stones.

A patch of wild daises leaning against a rickety, wooden fence caught my attention. They nodded in the gentle spring breeze as though encouraging me to stay strong and avoid taking matters personally. Nature . . . I loved it so.

The hum of an approaching vehicle caused me to veer onto the grassy shoulder. I glanced behind me to make sure it wasn’t a black pickup. Great . . . Denton had chased me down. But my sights aimed toward home, and I had no inclination to endure whatever his excuse for bending the law in his behalf.

The hot truck engine breathed on me, and Denton slowed. The low whish of the power window reinforced his resolve to get my attention. “Shelby, can we talk?”

Seriously? My stomach craved the lunch nestled in Styrofoam, and irritation pelted me. Neither was decent company.

“Let me take you home.”

I pedaled faster.

“I want to hear your side of the story.”

How long could I continue biting my tongue? He’d lied to me from the moment he introduced himself as the great guy who lived close by. Denton McClure had much to learn from Mr. Rogers about being a good neighbor.

“Whose idea was it to call me with a shove toward suicide?”

“I haven’t made any calls to you.”