Kimber Chin

“It don’t need no hemming or hawing or whatever else you’re doing down there,” the older man blustered. “They ain’t gonna fall down and that’s all that matters.”

To him. His wife and daughter may think differently. Crystal put the last pin in. “But then we wouldn’t be able to see these boots and these boots,” she tapped the shiny cowboy boot with a finger, “deserve to be seen.”

“Da-” he stopped himself in time. “Straight. Made with all American leather. Real cow. None of that sissy ostrich or kangaroo or zebra.”

Zebra?  They made boots out of zebra hide?  Crystal straightened, meeting Ken’s laughing gaze.   “Done.”

“Done?” Bushy eyebrows slammed down. “You told me,” he rounded on his son, “this was an all evening affair. Brought your mom in and your brothers and even that lunatic sister of yours.”

Then where were they? Crystal glanced around her small shop.

“They’re waiting at Mel’s Coffee Shop,” Ken explained. “They think we’re at the lawyer’s office.”  Right.  Because the tuxes were a surprise.  “The Cinema 6 is playing True Grit tonight, dad. Fortieth anniversary screening. Thought you’d like to see it.”

“True Grit.” The dad’s eyes danced. “Now THAT’s a movie.” He drew his hands, gunfighter style, squeezing his thumb triggers. “John Wayne.”

“And I also thought,” Ken looked down, making a sweeping movement with his right foot, “Miss Crystal might like to join us. If,” his chest heaved as he took a big breath, “she wants.”

“Do I want?” He was asking her out. This big, handsome, charming man. Crystal gave him her best smile. “‘I want Tom Chaney to hang for killing my father.’” She quoted from the movie she’d watched a hundred times with her own dad. “That’s what I want.”

Both men stared at her, their mouths open.

“You’re sitting beside me,” the dad declared, hugging her close.

“No way, no how.” Ken took her hand, his callused fingers gentle. “She’s my date. You sit with Mom.”