Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(6)
Great. Just, great . . .
As they escorted her to her very first mug shot and she stared into the camera unsmilingly, she knew she’d accomplished at least one of her goals: She’d made an indelible impression on Captain Ross Sinclair.
CHAPTER 2
Later that evening, in his vast den with its vaulted, crossbeamed ceiling, Ross Sinclair moodily swirled his brandy as he stared into the crackling fireplace. It was tall enough for him to stand inside, so he seldom used it because of the enormous amount of wood required. It was spring, anyway, chilly at night but warmer during the day. Normally even when he was alone, except for his single employee, a cook/housekeeper/valet/butler, he kept the chill at bay with pashmina blankets and a brandy, but tonight he felt cold and discouraged.
The new eighty-inch LED TV on an adjacent wall was off. His expensive custom sound system, boasting discreet speakers throughout the five thousand square foot ranch house, played soft, mournful Celtic music. His favorite when he was feeling low.
Somehow arresting that Rothschild girl—woman, really, as he’d been surprised to see when he looked at her license—had revived unwelcome memories of the past and incited fresh doubts about his future. The hot little brunette with the blond streaks in her lush mane of hair, driving that ungodly expensive red sports car, had reminded him too much of Elaine. Wealthy, spoiled, and selfish, heiress of a wealthy family, she’d broken his heart, propelling him to drop out of graduate school at Yale on the medical school track and, on a wild hair, move to Texas with a fellow Yalie who had family in Amarillo.
Almost from the moment he’d set foot in West Texas, he’d loved it. Loved the open spaces, the friendly people, the desert climate, the openness to new ideas. While he missed his family, at twenty-three he knew he didn’t want to stay in school. He had his bachelor’s in political science, which was good enough. If he went back to the sprawling mansion in the Hamptons, his parents would push him to return to Yale, and he was sick of school.
So he stayed. And for a long time, at least, he thrived. It took him a good five years to get settled in the Highway Patrol, another five after that to break into the ranks of the Rangers. Along the way, he’d used an inheritance from his great-aunt, one of the few in the family not scandalized by his desertion from New York, and his own stock market skills, to slowly acquire a hundred-acre parcel and add to it over the years until his ranch was now almost a thousand acres. The recent oil strike had been sheer luck.
He understood the irony. The Sinclairs could trace their New England ancestry back to the Mayflower and had birthed a long line of successful tycoons and minor but still respected politicians, and Ross was one of the few of them who didn’t give a flip about money. Yet he’d made more on his own than he’d ever inherited. It was his career that truly challenged him and kept him grounded. He’d seen up close and personal the way money, especially inherited money, corrupted. His fortune was purely an accident of birth and geography. Money was little solace for the missing family and passionate love he’d secretly yearned for all his life. Seeing his friend Chad find it in such an unexpected way had proved that it was, after all, possible to combine The Job with the right woman.
But only the right woman. And he wasn’t an easy match . . .
As for the future, the job he’d always loved had, of late, been more chore than pleasure. He had almost twenty-eight years under his belt now, enough to retire early on a full pension if he chose. Now that his best friend on the force had become a lieutenant and accepted a desk job in Lubbock so he could spend more time with his infant son and wife, Jasmine, he seldom saw Chad Foster. Even the upcoming annual Sinclair reunion , when Ross’s home became a world-class dude ranch, didn’t fill him with his usual anticipation.
As he stared into the amber liquid, he finally admitted part of the problem. The fact was, he was getting old. Pushing fifty-two, he could soon retire if he chose, but he still had a long career ahead of him if he wanted it. The question was, did he still want it? He certainly didn’t need the pension. Not to mention the second inheritance his grandmother was insisting on bequeathing to him over his protests. He’d already decided which charitable organizations to bless.
Irritated at the circular nature of his thoughts, he tossed back the last of his brandy and fetched the San Antonio paper. The headline blared up at him: “Texas Rangers lead hunt for human trafficking ring ending in El Paso.” Tilting the specs he hated onto his nose, Ross read the article. How the hell had Tupperman found out all this proprietary information? He picked up his cell phone and dialed the freelance investigative reporter who’d broken the story. He knew he’d get an answering machine this late, but he had to go on record with his concern. Besides, he golfed sometimes with Curt Tupperman; he even liked the guy.
He minced no words in his message. “Curt, dammit, you know better than to go off half-cocked running a story like that with attribution. One of my assets may be in danger with the cartels, now you blabbed so many details. The cartels have very sophisticated information-gathering techniques, including hackers who can breach your security and get into your files. I want a retraction and a written promise from your publisher not to run anything like this again without clearing it with our office, or so help me, I’ll go to Homeland Security and ask them to bring you all up on charges for interfering in our investigation.” He hung up, not identifying himself because he knew Curt would recognize his voice.