But she kept the entire incident in perspective by remembering those iron bars between them. No matter how spectacular the kissing, they were locked apart by who they were. A Matthews man married a pedigreed woman like Honor Witherspoon. Maybe at eighteen Kitty had harbored foolish hopes to the contrary. But now she understood. Accepted the reality.
As she approached Locks, Stocks, and Barrels, a parking spot opened up. Under that shop's roof, one could have a haircut, get a key cut, or purchase a handgun or hunting rifle as long as one was willing to abide by the specified waiting periods. A hand-lettered sign posted in the front window clearly spelled these out: "Up to thirty minutes for a free beauty operator, no more than fifteen minutes for a new key, ten days for the firepower of your choice."
Head down as she dug through her purse for her sunglasses case, Kitty strode through the front door of the shop and smacked into a man, her forehead to his chest. Something metallic clattered to the linoleum floor.
Kitty jumped back. Then smiled. "Judge," she said. "I'm sorry."
Judge D. B. Matthews smiled back. "Kitty Wilder. My apologies."
He looked so much younger than Kitty remembered that she wondered if he'd just had a new haircut or perhaps a beauty shop application of Grecian Formula on his close-cropped dark hair. But no, the style looked the same as always, and there was still a generous, though attractive, sprinkling of silver at his temples.
"Whatever are you doing here?" she asked.
He shifted his feet - nervously, she thought for a moment - until she realized a selection of shiny keys were scattered across the floor.
"Oh, let me," she said, but they both bent over to gather them up. As they straightened, she poured the two she'd retrieved from her palm into his.
"For Dylan," he said, shaking his fist so the keys rattled like dice. "To the house and his old apartment above the garage. I understand I have you to thank for his decision to stay in town a while longer."
Kitty's smile died. "Well, uh..."
"He said you persuaded him that Old Town needs a sheriff."
But not that she'd coerced him into agreeing to be sheriff. Whew. "Yes, well, he's a cooperative sort, huh?"
Judge Matthews shook his head. "Not with me. I've been verbally arm-twisting him for the last four years to quit the FBI and open a law practice in Hot Water."
Kitty frowned. "But surely that would mean he'd have to finish law school first?"
"He already did, by taking night courses over several years. That's when I started hoping. When he was younger, he always said he was going to continue the Matthews's practice, but then..." The judge looked down. "Well, then he decided to go into law enforcement instead."
Hmm. Dylan had completed his law degree. She supposed he'd finished it because it could be useful in his career with the FBI. But the young man on the banks of the creek eight years ago had seemed adamant about completely and forever rejecting any plans he'd made before the kidnapping.
Yet now he was back, law degree in hand, putting hopes in the hearts of - Hope in the heart of his father. And Dylan was back because Kitty had married him. He was staying because she'd forced him to. Guilt heated her cheeks and she dropped her gaze from the judge's eyes to his chin.
"Well, um, it was nice chatting with you." She started sidling away.
"You too, Kitty," he said. "Good-bye." Before exiting, he slid a lingering glance over his shoulder, to the area of the shop where six or seven women were being serviced by the three beauty operators.
It was that odd, lingering glance that made Kitty peer in the same direction. Her gaze moved past the counter with the cash register, beyond the three beauty-salon chairs - one in which Aunt Cat sat, getting her comb-out - then stopped in front of the four hair dryers. Stopped at the manicurist's table. On the wall above the table, a locked glass case displayed samples of the handguns Erwin Sanderson sold. Directly below that, her back to Kitty, sat Nellie Sanderson, the manicurist and shop owner. Beneath the table was a yellow washtub filled with suds, for the soaking of a client's feet before a pedicure.
And across the table sat Nellie's client. While another woman might not have thought ahead, and would have been forced to hitch her pant hems