Page 3 of Judge’s Redemption

My pulse jumps hard enough to make me furious.

He has no right to look at me as though the years apart are an inconvenience he intends to remove. Worse, I have no right to want him to try.

“I'll be there.”

He says it like a promise, and my anger sharpens because promises from Judge used to mean something.

Evie reaches for my hand. “Mommy, we're late.”

“Yes honey, I know.”

Judge's attention flicks to the word Mommy, then back to my face. The weight of it is physical, heavy with questions and something darker that my skin recognizes even when I don't want it to.

Time hasn't cooled the way he looks at me and that knowledge lands low in my belly.

I turn before he can see it and walk Evie toward the crosswalk. Judge doesn't call after me or try to block my path. He simply stands beside his motorcycle and watches until we disappear through the salon door.

Dottie has my client shampooed and in the chair when I hurry inside.

“You're a saint,” I tell her.

“I'm charging you chair rent by the minute.” She pats Mrs. Bell's shoulder and passes me the comb. “And you've clearly got a situation.”

Mrs. Bell's eyes sharpen in the mirror. “What situation?”

“No situation.”

Dottie's eyebrows lift above the black frames of her glasses. She's sixty-two, has owned Main Street Hair for almost thirty years, and can identify a lie before the person telling it knows they've opened their mouth.

“The vice president of Kingdom Come has been standing across the street staring through my window for the last three minutes,” she says.

My hand pauses over the cutting cape.

I don't look. Mrs. Bell does.

“Judge?”

“Unless they've patched in another dark-haired man built like he could break somebody in half without raising his voice.” Dottie lowers her voice as though that might stop Mrs. Bell from hearing. “He saw the little one, didn't he?”

Mrs. Bell catches my gaze in the mirror. “I thought Evie had familiar eyes.”

I close mine briefly. “Could we please talk about your layers?”

She smiles. “You're the professional.”

I focus on her hair because hair makes sense. There's always a shape beneath the mess if I cut carefully enough. I can't say the same for the rest of my life.

Moving back to Ransom was supposed to make things simpler. The apartment in Springfield took nearly half my monthly income before utilities. Preschool cost more than my first car, and the salon where I worked changed owners twice in a year. Here, the River Street rental is small but cheap, Evie's preschool is three blocks from Main Street, and Dottie had an empty chair she was willing to rent without asking for six months upfront.

I can pay my bills. I can collect Evie every afternoon. I can build a client list from women who remember me and people who've heard I'm good with difficult color.

The only impossible part was avoiding Judge.

For six weeks, I managed it. I learned which mornings Kingdom Come usually rode through town, took the back road to the grocery store, and ignored the fact that the Landing had reopened after the fire. Kane, the new president’s club had become more visible instead of less. Men in cuts came into town for food, parts, and supplies without everybody locking their doors behind them.

Ransom is beginning to look at Kingdom Come differently. People talk about Kane stepping in before the fire spread through town. Nobody suddenly trusts the club. Thirty years of King as the MC president don't disappear because his son makes a few better choices, but cuts on Main Street no longer empty the sidewalk quite as quickly.

When I finally risk a glance through the front window, Judge is gone. The empty curb should ease the pressure behind my ribs. But it doesn't.