Keeping Christmas - By B. J. Daniels Page 0,2

and the holiday traffic got any worse.

He’d only stopped in for a minute, but now he couldn’t wait to get home. He glanced around his office, ignoring the dust that had accumulated while he’d been gone. The light was flashing on his antiquated answering machine. For a moment he thought about checking his calls.

But it was only days until Christmas and he told himself he wasn’t in the mood for anything to do with work. Anyone he wanted to talk to knew he hadn’t been in his office for weeks and wouldn’t be for a while longer. The only reason he’d stopped by this evening was to gather up any bills from the floor where the mailman had dropped them through the old-fashioned door slot.

Chance nudged his dog awake with the toe of his boot. From in front of the old radiator, Beauregard lifted his head and blinked at him, the dog not looking any more anxious to go out in the cold than Chance was.

“Come on, boy. Once we get to the cabin I’ll build us a fire and make us both big fat steaks. It’s the holidays. I think we deserve a treat.”

The dog keyed on the word “treat” and jumped to his feet, padding to the door, tail wagging.

Chance glanced around the office one last time to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, not sure when he’d be back. The private investigator business was slow this time of year in Montana and he knew he hadn’t completely recuperated from the bullet Doc had taken out of his shoulder.

While the physical wound had healed, Chance’s heart wasn’t into work yet. He wasn’t sure when he would be again. Certainly not until the holidays were long gone. This time of year was always the toughest for him.

He saw Beauregard’s ears perk up as they both heard the outside door open. Chance didn’t give it a thought since he shared the building with a beauty salon, an insurance firm, investment office and a knitting shop.

With Christmas just days away, he knew the beauty shop and knitting store had been busy. That would explain the small, slowly melting snowdrift that had formed just inside his door. With the main entrance door opening and closing all the time, gusts of snow blew up the hallway and under his office door. He’d turned down the heat in his absence, planning to hide out until after the holidays and things slowed down again in his building.

He picked up his old black Stetson from his desk and snugged it down on his head, then moved to open the door, turning out his office lights as he and Beauregard stepped into the long hallway.

At the other end, a bundled-up figure had just come in. Snowflakes, light as feathers, skittered along the wood floor as the man shut the front door behind him, closing out the snowy December evening and the sound of a bell jingler nearby.

Chance slammed his office door, checking to make sure it was locked, and started down the hallway.

The man hadn’t moved. Probably waiting for his wife in the beauty salon or the knitting shop.

But as Chance drew closer, he felt a familiar prickle of unease. The man was good-size, huddled in a sheepskin coat, fine boots and slacks, his face in shadow under a pale gray Stetson. A wealthy Montana rancher or— Chance felt a start and swore under his breath.

Or a rich Texas oilman.

“Chance Walker,” the man drawled in a familiar, gravely voice.

Next to Chance the dog let out a low growl as the hair stood up on the back of the canine’s neck.

“Easy, Beauregard,” Chance said as he reached down to pet the mutt, surprised his dog had the same reaction Chance did to the man.

“You named your dog Beauregard?”

“Couldn’t think of a better name for a stray, mean-spirited mongrel.”

Beauregard Bonner let out of howl of laughter and thrust out his hand, grabbing Chance’s and pulling him into a quick back-slapping hug. “Damn, boy, I’ve missed you.” Beauregard, the dog, growled louder in warning. “Call off your dog and tell me where we can get a stiff drink in this town. You and I need to talk.”

Chance couldn’t imagine what he and Beauregard Bonner might have to talk about. The last time Chance had seen Bonner it had been in the man’s Texas mansion outside of Houston. Bonner had been gripping a shotgun and threatening to blast a hole the size of Texas in him.

“Damn, this is a cold country,”