Foster Justice

  “Oh, I think you like me more than you’ll admit. I have many . . . dimensions.”

  “Yeah, I can see ’em.” He slapped his hat back on his head. “Honey, I wouldn’t take it if you were giving it away free.”

  Legal training had aided her natural inclination to hold her cards close. Her smile actually sparkled under the lights. “Shall we put it to the test?”

  His eyes narrowed under the thick lashes. “Oh, I forgot. This is the part where you do your lap dances to make the really big bucks. Thanks, but no thanks. Besides, I tipped you twenty bucks already.”

  What a jerk. She’d been about to tell him she didn’t do lap dances anymore, but now she gave him that little sexy north-south appraisal designed to tickle men right below the belt. And based on the way he shifted his weight from hip to hip, as if his pants felt too tight, it worked whether he liked it or not.

  Jasmine said softly, “Tell you what. You follow the rules and avoid touching me and I won’t even charge you my usual going rate.”

  “How much is that?”

  “Two hundred bucks.”

  He almost flinched, but his hard gray eyes delved into hers. “Tell you what. If I don’t touch you, you answer two questions for me. Straight on. In more than one syllable.”

  “You’re on, Mr. Policeman.”

  FOSTER JUSTICE

  COLLEEN SHANNON

  eKENSINGTON BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  “Oh, I think you like me more than you’ll admit. I have many . . . dimensions.”

  Title Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  TEXAS DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC SAFETY REQUIREMENTS TO APPLY AS A TEXAS RANGER:

  “Each applicant must be a citizen of the United States of America,

  in excellent physical condition, and have an outstanding record of at

  least eight (8) years experience with a bona fide law enforcement

  agency, engaged principally in the investigation of major crimes . . .

  Applicant must have a background subject to a thorough investiga tion, which would reflect good moral character and habits . . . Little

  recruiting has ever been necessary and it is not unusual for many

  officers to apply for only a handful of openings.”

  Author’s notes:

  The Texas Rangers are the oldest state law enforcement body in the United States and were established by Stephen F. Austin in 1836 during the formation of the Republic of Texas.

  As of 2009, there were 150 commissioned Rangers. They are protected from disbandment by state law. They have statewide jurisdiction and often collaborate with federal law enforcement agencies and agencies in other states.

  TEXAS RANGER MOTTO:

  “One riot, one ranger.”

  CHAPTER 1

  As rustlers went, they were better’n most, Chad Foster decided, caressing his AR-15 rifle mounted with a night vision scope. The thieves, probably the same ones he’d been chasing all over the Panhandle, had herded his cattle up to this plateau far above the canyon floor, giving the Black Angus little room to escape being forced into the huge trailer. Still, pursuing lawbreakers as part of his job and finding them rustling his own private stock were two different things.

  Keeping his spirited stallion, Chester, still with his knees, Chad peeked around the outcropping, gauging distance and angle. If he aimed just right, he should be able to take out enough tires on one side to cripple their rig. Then what? He was one man, on a horse, against three hardened criminals in a huge tractor trailer.

  While he contemplated his options, a Texas sunset painted Palo Duro Canyon in golden and red hues of blood and glory. The rays winked off his distinctive Texas Ranger Lone Star badge like a warning light. But the scroungy wannabe cowboys were too busy to notice, zipping around on ATVs, corralling steers toward their cattle trailer. Chad’s lip curled. No matter how fancy their rig, likely stolen, too, Chad viewed rustlers on a par with worms and strippers: the only critters too low to fall down.

  Cattle prices had finally gone up enough to make it worthwhile for a part-time rancher. Should be just enough profit to catch up on those back taxes Trey had let slide. He wasn’t about to lose the cattle now—even if he was outgunned and outnumbered. Hell’s bells, the old Ranger motto was still as valid today as it had been when coined over a century ago: “One riot, one ranger.” His decision made, in his usual to-hell-with-the-consequences fashion, Chad eased out of hiding while the rustlers were busy with the trailer latch. He reined Chester around the outcropping to take careful aim at a huge rear tire.

  A stray steer spooked Chester. The stallion whinnied and reared. Looking up, the rustlers spotted him. In his cowboy hat, chaps, and spurs, with the rearing sorrel quarter horse reddish against a violet sky, Chad was an image right out of the Old West, when retribution was more than a fancy word. Getting the message, they abandoned their ATVs for the truck.

  Chad needed both hands to calm Chester, the rifle slung over his shoulder, and by the time he was able to take steady aim, the perps had fired up the huge diesel and stirred up a cloud of dust, leaving him choking in their wake. He squinted, his eyes tearing as he tried to sight, but the scope was useless in all this dust. He shouldered the rifle and kicked Chester into a gallop, moving at an angle that would cut them off at the dirt road leading off the plateau.

  Then, to his shock, he realized the huge vehicle, with a screeching of brakes and spitting of dirt and rock, had done a one-eighty, driving back toward the canyon edge. Chad wheeled Chester around to keep pace. The truck’s lights pierced the haze of dirt and dusk, blinding spooked and confused cattle. Behind them was the canyon rim; in front loomed that huge mechanical monster.

  While Chad stared, trying to figure out what in tarnation the rustlers were trying, the truck lurched forward, Klaxon horn honking, lights blinking, rock chunks spitting as it came, startling several steers. The confused cattle took the path of least resistance and ran away—straight toward the canyon edge, less visible in the growing gloom.

  God Almighty, they were forcing the steers over the edge just to spite him! Chad looked frantically around, but he had no backup and little inspiration, only hard choices.

  Lose his herd, or risk his life to stop the stampede. On horseback.

  In the end, the choice wasn’t difficult. He had no wife, no kids, and no girlfriend. In fact, he only had three things he valued in life: one little brother who hated his guts, the fourth-generation Amarillo ranch that had bred them both, and The Job. And if he let these assholes buffalo him, he’d risk all three.

  The truck gained speed, horn blaring, and the milling cattle went from a lope to a panicked stampede. At this rate they’d be over the rim in minutes. Spurring Chester into a flat-out gallop, Chad bent low over his stallion’s neck, leaping over boulders, down a small gully, back up the other side. But the rough path allowed him to cut in front of the truck and ride alongside the herd, perilously close to the canyon edge.

  However, Chester had been a cow pony all his life, and he’d herded panicked cattl
e before. They wove through the milling herd, slowing some of the laggards a bit more with their diagonal passage. Chad pulled his rifle and fired at boulders above the lead steer’s head. Bits of rock sprayed the steer in the face, making him snort and slow a bit, but that damnable horn blared again.

  Roaring, the engine revved into a higher gear, brights flashing, and the slowing stampede picked up speed. They were halfway to the edge now, a sheer drop two hundred feet to the canyon floor.

  Chad sped up again. He could risk everything and try to get in front far enough to herd them around, or take on the truck now and to hell with the herd. Or he had one shot to do both. Urging Chester to the edge of the stampede again so he could gain speed on the outside, Chad guided Chester with his knees and sighted back over his shoulder as he rode, trusting his horse with his life.

  Holding his breath and letting the rhythm take him, Chad became part of Chester, feeling the rise and fall of each step, his hands steady on his rifle. He sighted at the horn as it blew a fresh clarion. Bam! The shot landed dead center, killing the horn’s bellow with a gush of air.

  Next he aimed at the headlights. He hit one before Chester stumbled slightly, and Chad almost went flying. He had to let the rifle sling back over his shoulder while he grabbed the reins. They were galloping even with the lead cattle, and he urged Chester faster, putting distance between him and the head of the herd.

  Ten feet, twenty, thirty, fifty . . .

  Just before the canyon rim, Chad wheeled Chester like the quarter horse he was, damn near on a dime, sighting again before he stopped. Chester’s hooves broke rock off the crumbling edge. One part of Chad registered the rockslide he’d started and how long it took the rocks to hit the canyon floor, but the coolest part of his brain calculated distance and angle.

  The other headlight was smack dab in his crosshairs. Pling! The last light went out. The truck slowed, downshifting again. Taking advantage of that hesitation, Chad shot repeatedly now at the rocks littering the path of the stampede leader. The steer blinked and bawled as rocks scoured its face, slowing as it shook its head.

  Chad shot a scrubby tree into bits, more litter blocking the lead steer’s path. It slowed again. The cattle in back, now that they weren’t blinded and spooked by the horn and lights, had also slowed. But the truck, idling for an ominous moment, began to speed up again, gears grinding. The cattle in back shied away.

  Glad he’d put in his biggest clip, Chad fired at the lead cattle again, grazing hooves. They stumbled. A couple fell, slowing the ones behind.

  But they were close, too close, a mere thirty feet away now.

  He had one chance to avoid being swept over the canyon rim by his own herd, and he took it, firing at the rig’s tires. One blew, two, three on one side, and the truck began to lurch, slowing as the front axle hit the ground.

  Chad tried to fire in front of the lead cattle again and cursed when he heard an empty click. They’d slowed a lot, but were still coming. Using the only weapon he had left, Chad cued Chester into a rear and roared at the top of his lungs, wildly waving his rifle over his head, hoping he loomed large and terrifying against the dying sunlight.

  Chester whinnied, pawing the air. Ten feet away, the lead steer veered to the side rather than face the angry quarter horse.

  The rear cattle milled around again, confused.

  Chad was able to whack the last few cattle away from the rim and make his way toward the rig. It lay skewed on one side as Chad quickly put in another loaded clip and reined Chester toward the driver-side door, rifle pointed.

  He was expecting it, so when he saw movement in the gloom, he fired. Yelling in pain, the driver dropped the pistol he’d been aiming at Chad’s head. Chad fired at the passenger-door side, too, and it slammed shut.

  Holding the rifle steady on the driver, Chad appeared at the window, his angular, grimy face as hard as the landscape around them. “Haven’t you heard, boys? Beef’s bad for you. Especially when it isn’t yours.” He waved the rifle at them. “Out. This side, all of you.”

  The driver got out first, cursing a blue streak Chad ignored. His men followed. “Put your hands on the side of the truck.” They did so. Still seated on his horse, Chad ignored his handcuffs and pulled his lariat.

  “Lean back away from the truck.” When they obeyed, Chad neatly hooked the leader around the waist, and got down and tied the hands of the next two men with the same rope, turning them into a cowboy-style chain gang. He cinched the other end of the rope around Chester’s saddle horn.

  “Hey, mister, what you doing? You don’t mean to walk us back all that long way! In the dark?” protested the lead rustler.

  Chad kneed Chester, forcing them to stumble along behind. “You put me in a mind to herd something. It’s only, say, twenty miles back to headquarters. We’ll see how much piss and vinegar you have then.” Settling back in his saddle, Chad ignored their bitching and walked them down the road, through peacefully grazing cattle.

  He debated calling Trey to let him know he wouldn’t be in until morning, but it was a useless courtesy since little brother was probably stone-cold drunk. Like usual. Over a woman not worth a hat tippin’, as his daddy would say.

  At the Foster homestead, Trey Foster swigged the last of his rum and Coke, swimming in a fog that dulled the enormity of what he was about to do. But it was time, past time, to get the heck out of Dodge, back to LA where he belonged.

  Back to the only girl he’d ever loved, ever could love, even if she was someone his big brother would never approve of. Bleary-eyed, Trey looked from the paint on the tips of his fingers to his masterpiece, glistening with wet oil in the bright lights of his studio.

  It was some of his best work. A lovely, mysterious woman, her face half shielded by a long fall of deep auburn hair, was depicted from the waist up. She wore only a lace shawl arrayed low over a luxurious bosom. On the lower slope of her right breast was a small but alluring butterfly tattoo, its blue and yellow wings so vivid it looked about to take flight every time she breathed.

  He’d painted her from memory, with such lust and longing that the redhead seemed Woman incarnate, the temptress responsible for the downfall of Man since time immemorial. Yet he’d also perfectly captured weariness and longing in her blue eyes . . . as if the hopeful romantic lurking inside the temptress still slumbered, waiting to be awakened by the right man.

  Lost in memory, he almost didn’t hear the knock until it came a second time, more insistently. He stumbled as he moved off his stool, knocking against his favorite easel with the splintered leg. He’d repaired it so many times it was rickety. He had to catch the wall as he weaved from room to room in the old ranch house. By the time he made it to the front door, the visitor was pounding harder.

  “All right, all right,” Trey muttered as he flung open the door to Thomas Kinnard’s impatient face. As soon as he saw Trey, Kinnard smoothed his scowl into a smile. He pumped Trey’s hand.

  “Good to see you again, Trey. We’ve missed you in LA. You ready to finalize the deal?”

  Trey stood aside, still clutching the door, but guilt sucker punched him the minute he let into his ancestral home the Beverly Hills businessman Chad would despise. The mere thought of facing Chad after this deal was done made him sick at his stomach. But then Chad belonged here. Trey never had.

  Avoiding the stern stares of his ancestors, arrayed in chronological order around the living room walls—most of the severe-faced men garbed in various uniforms and badges—Trey waved Kinnard into a chair and slumped onto the couch. Kinnard pulled a thick sheaf of papers from his pocket and handed them to Trey.

  Trey unfolded them and made every pretense of reading, but the truth was, he couldn’t even focus past the heading: “Bill of Sale: Transfer of Land and Mineral Rights.”

  Kinnard stood without being invited and poured them each a drink from the tray. “Mind if I take a look at what you’ve done since you’ve been here?”

  Trey waved him toward his studio, still trying t
o concentrate.

  It seemed a long time before Kinnard returned. Trey sniffed his drink, confused that all of a sudden it smelled like paint thinner, but then a blur of movement caught his gaze and he realized Kinnard was wiping his paint-smeared fingertips on a rag.

  Trey blinked, his voice slurred, but he wasn’t too drunk not to be suspicious. Like most artists, he found art gallery owners a necessary evil, but he sure as hell didn’t like giving them more than half of every dime he made. “You become a painter all of a sudden?”

  “I got a little too close to that portrait you did of Mary. It’s stunning. Can I show it after you get to LA?”

  “It’s not for sale, too private. And I’m not finished with it anyway.”

  “That’s easy to fix. Just give it Jasmine’s face instead of Mary’s and we’ll make a fortune with it. But I like it.”

  “You’re meant to. But I don’t want to share her with anyone.”

  Kinnard scowled, but Trey turned back to the contract, pretending to read. He wished there was some other way . . . but Chad was too damned stubborn, just like their daddy. They were sitting on a gold mine—who the hell cared if it ruined their grazing? Plenty of other ranchers combined cattle and oil. Besides, even though he’d only sold his half, Trey planned to split the income with Chad.

  Kinnard wandered the living room, appraising the pictures on the walls. When he came to the picture of a Texas Ranger in full uniform, the last in the line before Chad, in a similar uniform, Kinnard raised his glass.

  The movement caught Trey’s attention, and through a haze, he saw the businessman in profile staring at Gerald Foster’s picture. In twenty years, Chad would look just about like their father. Ever sensitive to emotions, Trey picked up on something not quite right in the way Kinnard stared at Daddy.