Foster Justice (2 page)

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.

The clean shaven, arrogant jaw flexed. Trey saw Kinnard's knuckles grow white as he clutched his highball glass so tightly ice rattled.

His vague sense of unease growing, Trey blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. When he looked again, Kinnard was walking back toward him, wearing the smooth smile that complemented his five-thousand-dollar silk suit. “The deal structure's exactly what we discussed. With the price of oil and gas, you and your brother will soon be rich. The preliminary geologicals indicate over a billion metric cubic feet of natural gas and over one hundred million barrels of oil.”

Trey hesitated.

“Mary can't wait to see you. And I've already made room on my gallery walls for some of your paintings. We'll schedule the unveiling as soon as we've built up some buzz.” Kinnard waited. “Any questions, Trey?”

Yeah
, Trey thought glumly.
One. Will Chad ever forgive me?
Trey pulled a gold nugget necklace out of his shirt, worrying at it. He knew he was doing the right thing for both of them, but he also knew Chad would consider him a sellout and a traitor.

Kinnard picked up the necklace and read aloud the inscription on the smooth bottom: “‘Family's all that lasts. Mama.' Cute.” Kinnard dropped the necklace back. “That and millions in the bank.” When Trey still fingered his necklace, Kinnard's voice grew impatient. “Which is worse? Possibly messing up your grazing land or losing everything to foreclosure?”

Taking a deep breath, Trey accepted Kinnard's fancy fountain pen and focused blearily. However, he signed his name with less than his usual flair.

Chad was going to be pissed.

A
day late and way more than a dollar short, Chad showed up at the Foster homestead gate just as dawn dew was burning off the scrub. No such thing as a lawn at their place because neither he nor Trey had either time or interest in caring for it. However, the jasmine their mother had planted had taken over one entire side of the porch. Its lush scent aroused visceral memories of home, and happier times, but conversely depressed him more.

Resting his arms on his saddle pommel, Chad sat an equally drooping Chester. He knew he was only avoiding another argument with Trey, but then the sound of a cranky engine roared up the road. Barbed-wire fences lined their ranch. Signs were posted every so often: No Trespassing. No Oil Transport Allowed Across Foster Land.

Chad's hackles lowered as he realized it wasn't a derrick truck from the adjacent oil leases shortcutting across their land as usual, but . . . a moving van. Dread kicked him in the gut as the van passed him and veered into their long, red clay driveway.

Chad kicked Chester into a gallop and drew him to a rearing stop just as the front screen door, rickety on its hinges, slammed open and Trey came out. Chad took one look at him and recognized the signs of a hangover. He was about to tear him a new one when the movers got out of the van and entered the house. Trey spotted him and ducked back inside.

So furious he didn't bother to tie Chester up, Chad stumbled with weariness as he leaped off his still-moving horse and slammed after Trey. It had been a long night, first the grueling trip across the mesa to town, then half a night's worth of paperwork. He'd had no sleep. He was dirty, exhausted, and depressed, and watching Trey flee his obligations snapped the last strand of Chad's frayed patience, which was never strong at the best of times.

Across the width of the hall filled with moving boxes and pictures of their ancestors, Trey and Chad stared at one another. They looked nothing alike, never had, and both knew it.

As Chad scowled at the packed suitcases, a bitter smile curled the edges of Trey's pretty-boy mouth, which had always reminded Chad of their mother. But then, Trey never had much of the grit and determination of the male side of the Foster clan. He was the “sensitive” one. The sight of the easel and painting supplies packed most carefully of all told Chad everything he needed to know.

Trey didn't plan on coming back.

For once, Trey didn't flinch from that accusing, judgmental look. He stared right back. “Big brother's watching.”

Chad said evenly, “You know, I figured you for lazy, and maybe even stupid sometimes when your heart's involved, but—”

“At least I have one—”

“But I never figured you for a coward. I taught you better. You gone plumb loco to run out on me when we're facing foreclosure?”

“In loco parentis, big brother. That's what you've always pretended to be since Mama and Daddy died. But you're not my father, you're not my conscience, and you're sure as hell not qualified to be my judge and jury.” Trey turned away dismissively and went back into the bedroom he used for a studio on the west side of the house. He moved toward a painting on an easel and stopped dead, staring.

Close on his heels, Chad stared, too.

A bosomy redhead wore only a lacy shawl, and the way the light fell made her alluring form all the more striking because the face was carved away. Chad felt a jolt below the belt, right where he was supposed to, but that only pissed him off. The woman couldn't possibly be that sensual in person. Even decimated, the picture was one of Trey's finest, and he had quite a repertoire. “Your Beverly Hills stripper?” Chad asked. “Why'd you carve her face away?”

Trey grabbed a tossed-aside palette knife and stared down at the same colors he'd used on the face in the portrait, now dried on the knife. “Damn him! He's just trying to teach me who's boss since I wouldn't let him show her. We'll see when I get out there . . .”

Not for the first or last time when Trey was around, Chad was lost. He felt like he'd stepped into
The Twilight Zone
meets
Days of Our Lives
. “Out there? Out where?” He'd assumed Trey was moving into Amarillo, as he'd threatened for years.

Trey carefully rolled up the painting, as if he held the
Mona Lisa
, resolving Chad's last doubt as to the redhead's identity. It was definitely that floozy Trey had talked about one night in a drunken fit. He'd recounted his broken heart, and how the one girl he'd ever loved had visited the ranch while Chad was on assignment, but she hated the isolation and had scurried back to Beverly Hills, leaving Trey a drunken wreck. Chad's cooped-up fury with the girl increased. She'd met Trey when he'd gone to the West Coast to show his art, dangled him like a fish on a hook, then deserted him just as he was about to ask her to marry him. Typical female. The visceral response came before he could stop it. “Dammit, boy, how many times do you have to dip your wick before you learn you can't burn the candle at both ends and run a ranch?”

Trey stopped dead, and the wounded look that flashed across his face took some of the sting out of his retort. “At least I have a date once in a while.”

He bent to fiddle with a suitcase, concealing his expression. Chad squelched another remark. No matter how much he deserved it, now was not the time to alienate Trey even more. He was a Foster, belonged here as much as his older brother, even if he was an artist, not a rancher. Chad could almost hear his mother pleading with him to mend fences, to protect what was left of their family.

Chad was about to say something conciliatory when Trey bent to put the rolled painting in a tube he'd obviously left for that purpose. A sheaf of papers fell out of Trey's jacket.

Chad caught one glimpse of the top heading: “Bill of Sale: Transfer of Land and Mineral Rights” before he literally saw red, forgetting everything but Trey's betrayal.

When Trey pocketed the papers, not meeting his eyes, and turned to exit, Chad grabbed his brother's slight shoulder and spun Trey to face him. He shook him for good measure. “How could you? How could you sell out four generations of sweat and toil for an exotic dancer not worth a dime?”

Trey jerked away. “Since she won't come to me, I have to go to her, and I need money to do it. Besides, I have the right to sell my half of this place and go wherever I please. And Beverly Hills is what pleases me.”

Torn between two primitive urges, Chad wasn't sure which he wanted to do first: vomit or beat the holy living crap out of his last blood relative.

 

Fifteen hundred miles away, two women exited the Cheesecake Factory in Beverly Hills. Both were tall and voluptuous, with identical shades of auburn hair. They were laughing, and several men almost careened into other pedestrians as they eyed the pair.

But Mary Baker, the slightly taller of the two, quit laughing as the other girl's purse slipped off her shoulder, disarranging her tailored white blouse enough for a bright yellow-and-blue butterfly tattoo on her breast to peek through the fabric.

Mary stopped dead on the sidewalk and pulled her own blouse aside, revealing an identical tattoo. “I thought you hated tattoos, Jasmine.”

“It's temporary,” Jasmine replied. “I know it matches yours, but Thomas chose the pattern, said he wanted us to look as much alike as possible for the art show.” Jasmine fidgeted her blouse back in place. “Somehow baring so much cleavage in broad daylight, in such a ritzy part of town, seems much cheaper than dancing half naked under bright lights. At least then I can't see all the men watching me.”

“Yeah, those rich old farts give me the heebie-jeebies, too,” Mary agreed. She pulled her blouse back in place before slowly continuing on. “I'm sorry I ever hooked you up with Thomas, Jasmine.”

“At least now I can pay my bills and tuition. Besides, I kind of like the tattoo. I'm using it in my act.”

Mary walked in silence, her lovely face grim.

Jasmine eyed her curiously. “What's the big deal? Why do you care if our tattoos match since you don't dance at the club anymore?”

“Let's just say, Thomas Kinnard never does anything without a reason. I'd get rid of the tattoo as soon as possible, if I were you.”

Gently, Jasmine caught her friend's arm and pulled her to a stop. “Why don't you admit what you're really worried about?”

Mary's blue eyes met Jasmine's pale green. Mary looked away.

“Trey's coming back out, isn't he?”

Mary shrugged, but then she burst out, “I . . . think so. And when he does, eventually he'll figure out I was never a dancer, and that I worked with Thomas to lure him away from his land.” Tears sparkled in her long-lashed eyes.

They were across the street from one of the city's lush parks, so Jasmine drew Mary to a bench shaded by an exotic flowering tree. “Give.” She caught her friend's hands.

 

Outside Amarillo, the subject of the two women's conversation for once in his life stood toe-to-toe with his taller, meaner, and stronger older brother. Trey said quietly, “She's waiting for me at the Beverly Wilshire. The guy who introduced us owns a gallery in Beverly Hills. He's gonna show my paintings.”

Chad shoved Trey against the wall. “You ungrateful little shit. Pa'd turn over in his grave if he knew you were willing to sell out his blood and bone for a woman not worth a hoot or a holler—”

The next minute, Chad was lying on the floor, looking up swollen-mouthed as Trey rubbed his sore knuckles. “You won't talk about her like that, got it? You've never even met her. Besides, you're the last man on the planet I'd come to for advice about women.” He stepped over his brother and dragged his suitcases outside.

Chad was about to follow when he saw a gleam of gold under the tall bureau in the hall. He picked up a card and read, “Gentleman's Pleasure.” And in smaller print, “Jasmine Routh, headliner.” Chad pocketed the card and bolted after Trey.

Trey almost knocked him down coming back into the house to get his art supplies. But it was the tube containing the redhead's portrait he valued most. He held it gently under his arm as he stumbled back down the creaky front porch steps to his battered 1998 red Camaro and put the art supplies on top of his suitcases. The tube he set gently in the backseat.

Chad's fingers closed and opened repeatedly. Trey saw, but the sadness in his pale blue eyes only deepened. “How long since you had a date, Chad?”

Chad's fists froze half-formed.

Trey started to get in his car, but he took a few steps to the side of the porch and broke off a twig of jasmine, bringing it to his nose. “This is the only thing I'll miss about this place. I'll always love the scent of jasmine.”

What might have been an answering sadness flickered in Chad's hard gray eyes before he said, “It's not too late, Trey. We can find a way to pay off the second lien we had to take when Mama and Daddy died, if we work together on it.”

“It was too late for me the day I was born on this godforsaken place. If you have any sense, you'll sell your half and get out, too, before you're as hard as Daddy. Find a woman, Chad. You need one. Bad.”

Chad rounded the car to slam the door shut as Trey opened it to get in. “When I take a notion for a stripper, I know who to call. Fine. Get out. But first you have to tell me who you sold to. I'll hock Granddaddy's Peacemaker and everything else I own to buy your half back.”

Trey slapped his hand away and opened the car door. “Chad, do you know what happens when you paint everything black and white?”

“Mama would be ashamed of you.” When Trey just looked at him, Chad finally gave up and stepped away from the car. “Go on. Be creative. You sure as hell aren't useful.”

Trey opened the door and got inside, but he looked up at his brother with a mixture of love, regret, and concern. “Sooner or later, you end up with gray. And gray's a mighty lonely color.”

Trey drove out, following the moving van, his words seeming to echo with prophetic wisdom on the West Texas wind, lingering after his passage. The dirt stirred by the wheels danced in a gay eddy around Chad's stunned face. A monarch butterfly fluttered lazily past, landing on his arm. He stared down at it, his hand lifting to squash it, but then he blew on it gently and went inside.

His boot steps echoed on the hardwood floors with lonely finality.

 

As Trey drove toward California, on Brighton Way in Beverly Hills, a stone's throw from Rodeo Drive, a new art gallery's lights flooded the night. The discreet bronze plaque beside the door glittered with gold lettering: Kinnard's American Masters. Well-heeled guests crowded the spacious gallery, eyeing an interesting blend of contemporary and traditional art, from sculptures to paintings to photos. One entire wall was taken up with acrylic paintings of butterflies unfurled so voluptuously they looked almost pornographic.

Jasmine saw now why Thomas had insisted on the matching tattoos: as usual, he was using business acumen, not some mysterious ulterior motive. The largest, most prominent painting depicted a yellow-and-blue butterfly, spread open in a very suggestive manner, with another butterfly poised above the unfurled wings.

A couple, both dressed in Armani, stood rapt before the painting. The woman enthused, “This artist has done with butterflies what Georgia O'Keefe did with flowers. I must have this, Rupert. The colors are perfect for our salon.” But her husband wasn't looking at the painting. He was watching the two voluptuous redheads circulating with discreet price lists.

Jasmine and Mary, dressed identically in black silk gowns that showed too much cleavage as well as their tattoos, seemed living, breathing examples of art themselves.