“Your father believes that the only place you’ll be safe is Texas…”

“Then you should listen to my father,” Dixie said, eyes blazing with anger before she spun around and headed out the deck door, slamming it behind her.

Chance swore as he watched her walk to the edge of the railing, her back to him. The light breeze stirred her hair. He could see her breath coming out in small white puffs. Forty-eight hours. Hadn’t Bonner told him not to let Dixie get to him? Just find her and take her to the plane. Period. Bonner had said it was a family matter. Let them work it out. It had nothing to do with him. Hell, what were the chances that anyone was really trying to kill her anyway…?

Keeping Christmas
B.J. Daniels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one is for my Uncle Jack Johnson,

whom we lost this year. Jack will be greatly missed,

especially his big heart, his laugh and his Texas barbecue.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A former award-winning journalist, B.J. Daniels had thirty-six short stories published before her first romantic suspense, Odd Man Out, came out in 1995. Her book Premeditated Marriage won the Romantic Times BOOKclub Best Intrigue award for 2002, and in the same year she received the magazine’s Career Achievement Award for Romantic Suspense. B.J. lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, two springer spaniels—Scout and Spot—and a temperamental tomcat named Jeff. She is a member of Kiss of Death, the Bozeman Writers’ Group and Romance Writers of America. When she isn’t writing, she snowboards in the winters and camps, water-skis and plays tennis in the summers. To contact her, write P.O. Box 183, Bozeman, MT 59771 or look for her online at www.bjdaniels.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Chance Walker—Tracking down Southern spitfire Dixie Bonner before Christmas should have been easy for the private investigator.

Dixie Bonner—When she found some old snapshots hidden in her mother’s jewelry box, Dixie had no idea of the danger—or that the trail would lead her to Montana to the man she’d always loved.

Beauregard Bonner—He’d kept the truth from his daughters all these years. But now not only was the secret out, it had unleashed a killer and an even bigger secret.

Rebecca Lancaster Bonner—All she ever wanted was to shed her family’s white-trash past and be one of Houston’s high society. How far would she go, though, to make sure no one ever found out the truth about her?

Oliver Lancaster—There were only two things in the world that got his blue blood going: money and power. Unfortunately, he stood to lose both unless his luck changed.

Carl Bonner—He’d always lived in his younger brother’s shadow. Everyone thought Carl had reason to resent Beauregard. Others thought he was just biding his time until he could get even.

Ace Bonner—It was hell being the poor, looked-down-upon cousin of Beauregard Bonner.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Prologue

The rain had stopped, but the parking garage seemed unusually cold and dark as Dixie Bonner started to step from the elevator.

One booted foot poised on the edge of the concrete, she hesitated, sensing something was wrong. She stood listening for whatever sound had alerted her, only now aware of how late it was. The library had closed for the night as had all the other businesses around it except the coffee shop back up the street where she’d been the past few hours.

She hadn’t realized the time or noticed how dark and empty the streets were. All the holiday shoppers had gone home for the night. She’d foolishly paid no attention because she’d had other things on her mind.

Now she felt vulnerable. Not that she wasn’t used to taking chances. It went with her job. But taking chances was one thing. Just being plain dumb was another.

She let one hand drop to her shoulder bag as she eased back, but kept her free hand holding the elevator doors open as she scanned the parking garage.

Her fingers found the purse’s zipper and began to slowly glide it open, speeding up as she heard the scrape of a shoe sole on the concrete floor of the garage.

She was in danger, but then she’d suspected that the moment the elevator doors had opened. She’d been on edge all night, at one point almost certain someone had been watching her beyond the rain-streaked window of the coffee shop.

There were two vehicles left in the unattended garage. A tan cargo van and her fire-engine-red Mustang. The van was parked right next to the Mustang.

Her hand closed over the can of pepper spray in her purse as she debated making a run for her car or returning to the upper level of the parking garage. Neither seemed prudent.

The decision was made for her as a man wearing a black stocking mask suddenly appeared in the open elevator doorway. A gun glinted in his right hand. She hit the door close button at the same time she brought up the can of pepper spray and pointed it at the man’s face.

He let out a howl and stumbled back as the full force of the pepper spray hit him in the eyes and soaked into the mask.

She shoved past him through the closing elevator doors, her eyes tearing from being in close counters with the spray. Running, near blind, tears streaming down her face, she sprinted toward the red blur of her car.

Too late she sensed movement out of the corner of her eye. A second masked man tackled her and took her down hard, knocking the air from her lungs. She landed on her stomach, gasping for breath even before he jammed his knee into her back to hold her down.

She still had the pepper spray can in one hand, a tight grip on her purse in the other. But she had a bad feeling that these men weren’t after her purse.

She tried to yell for help, knowing it was senseless. There was no one around. No one would hear her cries even if she had enough breath to scream.

Strong fingers twisted the pepper spray from her hand. She heard the can land where the man threw it, the can rolling away into the silence of the vacuous parking garage.

With her face pushed into the gritty cold-damp concrete, she could see nothing but the tires of her car next to her. She’d almost made it to safety.

She heard the first man come running up.

“Bitch.” He cursed. “My face is friggin’ on fire.”

She heard the anger in his voice and knew things were about to get a whole lot worse. The kick caught her in the ribs. The pain was excruciating, her cry pitiful, as the air was knocked out of her again.

She gasped for breath, fighting the terror that now had a death grip on her. She didn’t stand a chance against two men. Not alone in this garage. With a sabbatical from work and her lousy relationship with her family, it could be weeks before anyone even realized she was missing.

“Stop!” the second man ordered. “For hell’s sake don’t kill her yet. We have to find out where she put the damned journal and the disks before you—”

The second blow was to her head. Pain glittered behind her eyes just before the darkness.

DIXIE WOKE IN blackness, her head throbbing, her body cramped. She shifted position, bumped an elbow and a knee, and started to panic, gasping for breath as she realized she was in a cramped dark space.

She fought not to panic, not to let her mind tell her that her small prison was slowly closing in on her.

Breathe. You’re alive. Temporarily. Breathe.

“Just bring the damned computer and all the disks you can find.” It was the voice of the second man from the parking garage.

“I thought it was supposed to look like a robbery,” the first demanded.

“You let me take care of that. What about her journal? Have you found it yet?”

“It’s not in here.”

She heard the sound of footfalls heavy nearby as if someone was treading up stairs. She held her breath, trying to calm her breathing, her panic.

Her fingers moved slowly, cautiously, along the inside of the space around her. She frowned, feeling cool metal, rough carpet. She could hear the sound of things breaking, larger things being knocked over. She sniffed and caught a familiar scent. Laundry detergent. She’d bought a box at the market earlier and put it—

She was in the trunk of her car!

The realization sent a shot of hope racing through her. Hurriedly, she oriented herself, scrunching her body to get her feet against the rear seat, the one with the broken latch. She could hear voices. The two men arguing.

Bracing her body against the opposite side of the trunk, her feet against the rear seat, she pushed with all her strength.

At the sound of a loud crash, she kicked the seat hard. The latch gave, the seat flopped down.

Through the hole came light. She wiggled around until she could peer out. The car was parked in her garage. The two men were inside her house, the adjoining door open.

She listened, afraid they would come back now. No sound. Had they heard her?

She moved fast, half afraid they would be standing outside her car amused at the futility of what she thought was her great escape. But she had no chance cramped in the trunk. She didn’t have much chance in the back seat. But even a little edge was better than nothing.

Slithering through the space with the seat down, she ducked behind the front seats and looked out. No sign of the men in the garage. The door to the house was still open, but she couldn’t see anything but light coming from the kitchen. Where were the men?

She heard the sounds of more objects breaking, things being knocked over and destroyed. She grabbed the back door handle and, as quietly as possible, popped it open.

Inside the house she heard another crash, then voices. She slipped out of the car, making the decision just as quickly. The keys were in the ignition. She opened the driver’s side door, slid behind the wheel and locked all four doors as she reached for the garage door opener and said a silent prayer.

The garage door began to lift slowly and noisily as she fired up the car’s engine, her eyes on the door leading into the house.

The overhead garage door was too slow. Hurry! She had the car in Reverse, engine revved, ready, her gaze flicking nervously from the slowly rising garage door to the open door to the house. The garage door was a third of the way up. Just a little higher.

The two men came flying out of the house, stumbling down the steps that dropped into the garage. One of them slammed into the side of her car and groped for the door handle.

The garage door was almost up enough. The second man shoved past him, a gun in his hand. The man with the gun started to raise the weapon as she tromped down on the gas. The car shot backward under the rising garage door, the antenna snapping off.

She thought she heard a shot as she swung the car around in the driveway, slammed it into first and took off, tearing across the lawn, jumping the curb, tires squealing as they met pavement, engine screaming.

She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until it came out on a sob. She was shaking so hard, she could hardly hold on to the steering wheel. But she kept going. They would be coming after her. She’d seen the van parked just down the street from her house.

Worse, she’d seen their faces.

She’d known in the parking garage that they’d planned to kill her. But now they had no choice.

She’d recognized one of them—and he knew it.

Chapter One

All Chance Walker wanted was to get to the cabin before the snowstorm 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,” Bonner said, rubbing his gloved hands together and grinning good-naturedly, but there was a nervous edge to the man that Chance didn’t miss. “I don’t know about you, but I really could use that drink.”

Chance had a feeling he would need one himself. He pointed to the Stockman Bar across the street, his curiosity getting the better of him. What would bring a man like Bonner all the way to Montana in the middle of winter?

Nothing good, of that Chance was certain as they crossed the street in the near blizzard, the dog trotting along beside them.

“They let dogs in bars up here?” Bonner asked in surprise as the dog followed them through the door and down the long bar to sprawl on the floor under Chance’s stool.

“Actually, they prefer dogs over Texans,” Chance said.

Bonner looked over at him with a Don’t Mess With Texas scowl. “I don’t care how long you’ve lived here, you’re still a Texan, born and raised.”

Chance said nothing as Bonner ordered them both a drink. Bonner still drank expensive Scotch neat. Chance had a beer, nursing it since he had the drive ahead of him to the cabin—and he knew to keep his wits about him as he studied the man sitting on the stool next to him with growing dread.

Beauregard Bonner had aged since Chance had last seen him. His blond hair had grayed and the lines around his eyes had deepened. But the booming drawl was that of the filthy rich oilman Chance remembered only too well.

“Guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” Bonner said after downing half of his drink.

Chance stared down into his beer, waiting. A Christmas song was playing on the jukebox and the back bar glittered with multicolored lights. There was a Christmas tree decorated with beer cans at the other end of the bar and a large Santa doll with a beer bottle tucked in his sack.

“It’s my daughter,” Bonner said.

Chance’s head shot up. “Rebecca?” Last he’d heard, Rebecca had married some hotshot lawyer from back east who’d gone to work for her father. They lived in a big house near Houston and had three kids.

“Not Rebecca.” Bonner made a face. “Dixie.”

“Dixie?” Rebecca’s little sister? Chance recalled freckles, lots of them, braces and pigtails, an impish little kid who’d been a real pain in the neck the whole time he’d been dating Rebecca.

“Dixie might be in some trouble,” Bonner said as he scowled down at his drink.

Chance could not for the life of him imagine what that had to do with him and said as much.

“I want to hire you to find her.”

Chance pulled back, even more surprised. “They don’t have private investigators in Texas?”

“She’s not in Texas. She’s in Montana. At least, it’s where the last kidnapper’s call came from.”

Chance swore. “Kidnapper?”

“I need you to find her. I’m worried this time because the ransom demand is a million dollars.”

“This time? What was it last time?” Chance asked, half joking.

“When Dixie was three, it was a hundred dollars. Then a hundred thousand in high school. Five hundred grand in college. I figured Dixie was too smart to ever ask for a million, but damned if she didn’t.”

Chance couldn’t believe this. “Have you contacted the police? The FBI? Shouldn’t someone be looking for her?”

“There’s something you have to understand about Dixie. The last time she had herself kidnapped in college, I had cut off her money over a little dispute between us. The FBI got involved. It was ugly. She was dating some loser…” He drained his drink and signaled the bartender for another.

Chance motioned that he was fine. “Loser?” he repeated, remembering when Bonner had called him the same thing. It was about the time he’d started dating Dixie’s older sister Rebecca. Chance supposed Bonner would still consider him just that, a loser. So why come all this way to hire him?

Rubbing a hand over his face, Chance asked, “So you’re saying that Dixie hasn’t really been kidnapped. You’re sure about that?”

“I can’t be sure of anything with Dixie.” Bonner tipped up his glass and swallowed. “That’s why I want you to find her. I trust you more than I do the police or the FBI, and you can do it with more discretion.”

Chance shook his head. “For starters, I don’t have the resources of either of those agencies and I’m not working right now. I’m taking the holidays off.”

Bonner nodded. “Heard about you getting shot.” He smiled at Chance’s reaction. “I’ve kept my eye on you over the years.”

Nothing could have surprised Chance more, but he did his best to hide it. “Then you know that I’m not taking any cases right now.”

“I know you almost got killed, but that the guy who shot you is dead and won’t be hurting anyone else thanks to you,” Bonner said.

“Don’t try to make killing a man a virtue, all right?”

“You had no other choice,” Bonner said. “I saw the police report. Also, I know that your shoulder is as good as new.” He smiled again, a twinkle in his eye. “Money talks…”

Chance swore under his breath. Bonner hadn’t changed a bit. He believed he could buy anything—and most of the time he could. Bonner’s was a famous Texas story. Raised on a chicken-scratch farm, poor as a church mouse, Beauregard Bonner had become filthy rich overnight when oil had been discovered on the place his old man had left him.

Ever since, Bonner had used his money to control as many people as possible. And vice versa if what he was saying about his youngest daughter was true.

“Go to the authorities,” Chance said irritably. “You’ve come to the wrong man for this one.”

“I can’t,” Bonner said, looking down into his drink again. “They wouldn’t take it seriously. Why should they, given that she’s pulled this stunt before and there is no evidence that she’s been abducted?”

“What about the ransom demand and the fact that she’s missing? There was a ransom demand, right?”

“Just a male voice over the phone demanding a million dollars before I even knew she was missing,” Bonner said. “I thought it was a joke. The call came from a pay phone in Billings, Montana.”

Chance studied the older man for a long moment. “What is it you aren’t telling me?”

Bonner sighed. “Just that I need her found as quietly as possible. I’m involved in some deals right now that are sensitive, which I’m sure is why she’s doing this now.”

Chance stared at the man. “You’re telling me your business deal is more important than your daughter?”

“Don’t be an ass, of course not,” Bonner snapped. “Don’t you think I pulled a few strings to find out what I could? All the recent charges on Dixie’s credit cards have what they say is her signature. From the pattern of use it would appear that she’s up to her old tricks.”

Chance groaned. “She’s kidnapped herself?” Again. Why did she have to pick Montana this time, though? “Why don’t you just give her the million? Hell, she’s going to inherit a lot more than that someday anyway, right?”

Bonner looked over at him and shook his head. “She’d just give it all away. To save some small country somewhere. Or a bunch of damned whales. Or maybe free some political prisoners. She’s like my brother Carl. I swear it’s almost as if they feel guilty that we have money and want to give it all away.”

“Generosity, yeah, that’s a real bad trait. No wonder you’re so worried.”

Bonner ignored the jab. “You don’t know Dixie.”

No, he didn’t. Or at least he hadn’t since she was twelve. Nor was he planning to get to know the grown-up version.

He pushed away his beer and stood, Beauregard the dog getting quickly to his feet—no doubt remembering the promise of a treat once they got to the cabin. “Sorry, but you’ll have to get someone else. When you came in, I was just closing up my office for the rest of the holidays and going to my cabin.”

“The one on the lake,” Bonner said without looking at him.

Chance tried to tamp down his annoyance. Clearly Bonner had been doing more than just keeping track of him all these years. Just how much had he dug up on him? Chance hated to think.

“I know about the cabin you built there,” Bonner said, his gaze on his drink, his voice calm, but a muscle flexed in his jaw belying his composure. “I also know you need money.” He turned then to look at Chance. “For your medical bills. And your daughter’s.”

Chance felt all the air rush out of him. He picked up the beer he’d pushed away and took a drink to give himself time to get his temper under control.

It didn’t work. “You wouldn’t really consider using my daughter to get me to do what you want, would you?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Bonner met his gaze, but something softened in his expression. “Dixie is a hellion and probably payback for what a bastard I’ve been all of my life, but she’s my daughter, Chance. My flesh and blood, and I’m scared that this time she really is in trouble.”

Chapter Two

Chance drove to his cabin, Beauregard sitting next to him on the pickup’s bench seat, panting and drooling as he stared expectantly out at the blizzard.

On the seat between him and the dog was the manila envelope Beauregard Bonner had forced on him. Chance hadn’t opened it, had barely touched it—still didn’t want to.

Snow whirled through the air, blinding and hypnotic, the flakes growing larger and thicker as the storm settled in. He drove the road along the edge of the lake, getting only glimpses of the row of summer cabins boarded up for the season until he came to the narrow private road that led to his cabin.

His cabin was at the end of the road. He shifted into four-wheel drive, bucking the snow that had already filled the narrow road. Although mostly sheltered in pines, his cabin had one hell of a view of the lake. That’s why he’d picked the lot. For the view. And the isolation. There were no other cabins nearby. Just him and the lake and the pines stuck back into the mountainside.

He was still mentally kicking himself as he pulled up behind the cabin and cut the engine. He wasn’t sure who he was angrier at, himself or Beauregard Bonner. He couldn’t believe he’d taken the job. The last person on earth he wanted to work for was Bonner—not for any amount of money.

But Bonner, true to form, had found Chance’s weakness. And Chance had been forced to swallow his pride and his anger, and think only of how the outrageous amount of money Bonner was offering him would help take care of the medical bills.

Not that the whole thing hadn’t put him in a foul mood. And it being so close to Christmas, too.

He sat in the pickup, listening to the ticking of the engine as it cooled, taking a moment to just stare out at his cabin, the storm and what little he could see of the frozen white expanse of lake that stretched for miles.

Nothing settled him like this place. He’d built the cabin with his own hands, every log, every stone. His daughter had been born here on a night much like this one.

Beauregard pawed at his arm, no doubt wondering what the hold up was on that treat. “Sorry, boy.” Chance smiled as he reached over and rubbed the dog’s big furry head. Beauregard really was the ugliest dog Chance had ever seen. A big gangly thing, the dog was covered with a mottled mass of fur in every shade of brown. But those big brown eyes broke your heart. Two pleading big brown eyes that were now focused on him.

Chance had found him beside the road, starving and half dead. He’d seen himself in the dog—the mutt was the most pathetic thing Chance had ever laid eyes on. He’d worn no collar, had apparently been on his own for a long time, and hadn’t had the best disposition. Clearly they were two of a kind and meant to be together.

“I know,” Chance said, opening his pickup door. “I promised a treat.” The moment he’d said the word treat, Chance knew it had been a mistake.

Beauregard bounded over the top of him, knocking the beat-up black Stetson off Chance’s head as the dog bolted out the door and along the walkway to the deck at the front of the cabin.

Laughing, Chance got out, as well, retrieving his Stetson and slapping the snow from it as he followed the dog. On his way, he grabbed an armful of firewood and took a moment to pause as he always did to say a prayer for his daughter.

REBECCA BONNER LANCASTER pressed her slim body against the wall in the dark hallway, feeling nothing like the Southern belle she pretended to be.

She could hear her husband on the phone, but was having trouble making out what he was saying.

It was hard for her to believe that she had stooped this low. Spying on her husband. What would her friends at the country club think? Most of the time, she couldn’t have cared less what Oliver was up to.

Everyone in Houston knew he’d had his share of affairs since they’d been married. She suspected that most wives pretended not to know because it came as relief. As long as he left her alone, it was just fine with her.

As the daughter of Beauregard Bonner, she had her friends, her charity work, her whirlwind schedule of social obligations. That kept her plenty busy. Not to mention overseeing the nanny, the housekeepers and the household.

Rebecca couldn’t say she was happy, but she was content. She doubted most women could even say that. No, she told herself, no matter what her husband was up to, she’d made the right decision marrying Oliver Lancaster.

Oliver came from a family with a good name but no money, and while the Bonner’s had money, they didn’t have the pedigree. Because of that, it had been a perfect match. Oliver had opened doors that had been closed to her and her family. He was good-looking, charming and tolerant of her family and her own indiscretions.

Of course, her money helped. That, and his prestigious job working for her father. She knew Oliver didn’t really “do” anything as legal consultant at Bonner Unlimited. The truth was he’d barely passed the bar and provided little consulting to her father. Beauregard had a team of high-paid lawyers, the best money could buy, when he really needed a lawyer.

But Oliver didn’t seem to mind being paid to do nothing. And the title didn’t hurt in social circles either.

“What?” she heard her husband demand to someone on the phone.

Rebecca held her breath. For days now she’d noticed something was bothering Oliver. She’d hinted, asked, even had sex with him, but whatever it was, he was keeping it to himself.

So, she’d gone from snooping through his suit pockets to eavesdropping on his phone conversations.

Oliver swore. She could hear him pacing, something he only did when he was upset with her or her father.

“What the hell did he do that for?” Oliver demanded into the phone, then lowered his voice to ask, “Where is he now?”

Rebecca frowned, wondering who Oliver was talking about.

“That son of a bitch,” Oliver swore again.

There was only one person Oliver referred to in that tone and in those exact words. Her father. What had Daddy done now? She closed her eyes, relieved there was nothing more to it than Oliver finding fault with her father.

“Montana?” Oliver said.

Rebecca’s eyes flew open.

“What the hell is he doing in Montana?”

Daddy was in Montana?

“You’ve got to be kidding me. That damned Dixie.”

Dixie?

Her husband had moved to the other end of the room now, his voice muffled. She slipped along the wall silent as a cat, knowing it would be ugly if she got caught. And Oliver hated ugly scenes.

She could hear him talking, but still couldn’t make out most of the words. Then she heard a name that stopped her cold.

Chance Walker.

Daddy was in Montana and it had something to do with her sister Dixie and Chance Walker?

All the breath rushed out of her. She hadn’t heard Chance’s name in years. She’d completely forgotten about him. Well, maybe not completely. But she had been sure her father had.

What possible reason would Daddy and Dixie have for going to Montana—let alone that it involved Chance Walker?

“Don’t worry, I will. As long as nothing holds up the deal. I told you, you can count on me. No, no, I believe you. As long as you say it isn’t going to be a problem. All right. If you’re sure.”

Rebecca was shaking so hard she could barely catch a breath. Chance Walker. She’d thought she’d never hear that name again. But now that she had, she felt sick as it brought back the memory of the choice she’d made so many years ago—and why.

As Oliver hung up the phone, Rebecca retreated down the hall as quickly and quietly as possible. He was the last person she wanted to see right now.

AFTER CHANCE HAD a big roaring fire going in the stone fireplace, he spotted the manila envelope where he’d tossed it on the table. It wasn’t too late to call Bonner to tell him he’d changed his mind.

Every instinct told him that Bonner was holding out on him. He hadn’t been telling him the truth. Or at the very least, the whole truth.

Cursing himself and Bonner, he picked up the envelope and pulled out Dixie Bonner’s most recent credit card records. It amazed him what money could buy. Confidential records being probably the least of it.

Shoving away thoughts of Beauregard Bonner, he concentrated on the records. If Dixie wanted her kidnapping to appear real, why would she use and sign her own credit cards?

Unless someone was forcing her to use them.

He focused on the charges for a moment. They made no sense. No car needed gas as often as she’d used her cards. Unless she was crazy—or stupid—she had to know she was leaving a trail any fool could follow.

According to this, Dixie had bought gas at the most southeastern part of the state, then begun what appeared to be a zigzag path across Montana.

Beauregard let out a bark, startling him. He looked up from the report to see the dog staring at him, recrimination in those big brown eyes now.

“Sorry.” He tossed the credit card report aside and headed for the kitchen where he melted half a stick of butter in a large cast-iron skillet until it was lightly browned, then dropped in two large rib-eye steaks.

As they began to sizzle, he stabbed a big white potato a couple of times with a fork and tossed it into the microwave to cook. He considered a second vegetable but instead pulled out a Montana map and spread it out on the table. Retrieving Dixie Bonner’s credit card reports, he traced a line from town to town across the state.

Alzada. Glendive. Wolf Point. Jordan. Roundup. Lewistown. Big Sandy. Fort Benton. Belt.

Chance heard the steaks sizzling and turned to see that Beauregard was keeping watch over them from his spot in front of the stove. Chance stepped to the stove to flip the steaks, opened the microwave to turn the potato, dug out sour cream, chopped up some green onions and found the bottle of steak sauce in the back of the fridge—all the time wondering what the hell Dixie Bonner’s kidnappers were doing.

If there even were kidnappers.

Either way, zigzagging across Montana made no sense. Why not light somewhere? Any small Montana town would do. Or any spot in between where there was a motel or a cabin in the woods—if a person wanted to hide.

But if a person wanted to be found…

He pulled the skillet with the steaks from the burner and turned off the gas. He could hear his potato popping and hissing in the microwave.

Beauregard was licking his chops and wagging his tail. The dog watched intently as Chance cut up one of the steaks, picked up Beauregard’s dish from the floor and scrapped the steak pieces into it.

“Gotta give it a minute to cool,” he told the dog as he considered his latest theory.

He slapped his steak on a plate, quickly grabbed the finger-burning potato from the microwave and lobbed it onto a spot next to his steak on the plate.

Beauregard barked and raced around the cabin’s small kitchen. Chance checked the dog’s steak. It was cool enough.

“Merry Christmas,” he said to the pooch as he set the dish on the floor. Beauregard made light work of the steak, then licked the dish clean, sliding it around the kitchen floor until he trapped it in a corner.

Chance cut a deep slit in his potato and filled it with butter, sour cream and a handful of chopped green onions as he mentally traced Dixie Bonner’s path across Montana and told himself one of them was certifiable.

He took his plate to the table and ate a bite of the steak and potato, studying the map again.

Dixie wasn’t trying to hide.

He’d guess she wanted to be found and she was leaving someone a message.

He frowned as he ate his dinner, trying to imagine a mind that had come up with zigzagging across the state as a way to send a message.

Then again, Dixie was a Bonner.

And unless he missed his guess, she was headed his way. He checked the map, convinced he would be seeing her soon.

Why though? He doubted she even remembered him. But he might be the only person she knew in Montana and if she was desperate enough… More than likely something else had brought her to Montana. He wondered what. Was the answer on his answering machine at his office? He swore at the thought but realized there was no getting around it. He could speculate all night or go back into town in a damned blizzard and check the machine.

AS OLIVER LANCASTER hung up the phone, he saw a shadow move along the wall from the hallway. Quietly he stepped to the den doorway and watched his wife tiptoe at a run back up the hall.

It was comical to see, but he was in no laughing mood. Rebecca eavesdropping? He couldn’t have been more shocked. Not the woman who strove to be the epitome of Southern decorum.

How much had she overheard?

He tried to remember what he’d said as he watched her disappear around the corner. Nothing he had to fear. At least, he didn’t think so.

She would just think it was business. Not that she took an interest in anything he did. He put her out of his mind. It was easy to do. Rebecca looked good and played the role of wife of the successful legal consultant for Bonner Unlimited well, but the woman was a milquetoast and banal. Too much money and too much time on her hands. She bored him to tears.

He closed the door to the study, wishing he had earlier. She’d probably heard him on the phone and decided not to disturb him. Long ago, he’d told her not to bother him with dinner party seating charts or menus. That was her job. He hardly saw her and that was fine with him. Fine with her, too, apparently.

Oliver cursed under his breath as he moved to the window to stare out at the darkness. Even though he knew the security system was on, the estate safe from intruders, he felt strangely vulnerable tonight. And it didn’t take much to figure out why.

He prized this lifestyle, which at the center was his marriage over all else. Without Beauregard Bonner’s good grace—and daughter—Oliver would be nothing but a blue blood with family name only, and he knew it.

Rebecca had all the money and that damned Beauregard, for all his country-boy, aw-shucks hick behavior, was sharp when it came to hanging on to it. Oliver had been forced to sign a prenuptial agreement. If he ever left the marriage, he’d be lucky to leave with the clothes on his back and his good name.

That meant he had to keep Rebecca happy at all costs.

Which had been easy thus far. She seemed as content as he was in their “arrangement.” He left her alone and she did the same. The perfect marriage.

Nothing had changed, right?

As he started to turn from the window, he caught his reflection in the glass. He stared at himself, surprised sometimes to realize that he was aging.

He always thought of himself as he had been in his twenties. Blond, blue-eyed, handsome by any standard. A catch. Wasn’t that how Rebecca had seen him? He didn’t kid himself why she’d dumped Chance Walker to marry him.

Now he studied himself in the glass, frowning, noticing the fine lines around his eyes, the first strands of gray mixed in with the blond, the slightly rounded line of his jaw.

He turned away from the glass and swore. So he was aging. And yet that, too, made him feel vulnerable tonight.

He glanced around the expensively furnished room almost angrily. He wasn’t giving up any of this. He’d come too far and had paid too high a price. He wouldn’t go down without a fight. Especially because of Rebecca’s damned dysfunctional family. Or some cowboy in Montana.

Weary at the thought, he headed upstairs hoping Rebecca was already asleep. Or at least pretending to be like she was normally. He couldn’t play the loving husband. Not tonight.

THE BLIZZARD was a total whiteout by the time Chance drove back into town to his office. He’d been forced to creep along in the truck, often unable to tell where the shoulder and center line was on the highway, the falling and blowing snow obliterating everything in a blur of dense suffocating white.

His office building, when he finally reached the nearly deserted town of Townsend, Montana, was dark, all the shops closed.

He let himself in, surprised when Beauregard took off running down the hall to bark anxiously at the door to the detective agency.

Chance thought about going back to his pickup for the shotgun he carried. He hadn’t carried his pistol since the last time he’d used it to kill a man, but he was almost wishing he had it as he headed down the hall.

He reminded himself that Beauregard wasn’t very discriminating when it came to being protective. There could be another mouse in the office, something that had gotten the old dog worked up on more than one occasion.

Moving quickly down the hall, Chance quieted the dog and listened at the door before he unlocked his office.

Beauregard pushed open the door and streaked in the moment he heard the lock click. As Chance flipped on the light, he tensed. Beauregard Bonner’s visit had him anxious. So did the dog’s behavior.

He could hear the dog snuffling around his desk.

Edging into the room, Chance scanned the desktop. He could see at a glance that the papers he’d left there had been gone through.

Dixie Bonner. Was it possible she was already in town? But what could she have been looking for on his desk?

It made no sense.

Then again, little about the Bonners ever had.

Unfortunately there was no doubt that someone had been here. Just the thought made him angry.

He stepped behind the desk and checked the drawers. He didn’t keep anything worth stealing, which could have been why nothing appeared to be missing.

He had a safe but it was empty. He checked to see if the intruder had found it hidden behind the print of the lower falls of the Yellowstone River he kept on the wall—the only art in the office. Moving the framed print aside, he tried to remember the safe’s combination. It had been a while.

His birthday. He had to think for a moment, then turned the dial and opened the safe. Empty and untouched as far as he could tell.

Turning, he looked around the office, trying to understand why anyone would care enough to break in. He had no ongoing cases, had nothing to steal and kept any old files on CD hidden at the cabin. He didn’t even leave a computer in the office, but brought his laptop back and forth from the cabin.

And maybe more to the point, anyone who knew him, knew all of this.

But Dixie Bonner didn’t know him.

That’s when Chance noticed the dog. Beauregard stood next to the desk, the hair standing up on the back of his neck and a low growl emitting from his throat.

Chance moved around the desk to see why the dog was acting so strangely. The desk was old. He’d picked it up at a garage sale for cheap. Because of that one of the legs was splintered. He’d had to drill a couple of screws into the oak. One screw had hit a knot and refused to go all the way in.

He stared at the head of the screw that stood out a good inch. A scrap of dark cloth clung to the screw head—a scrap of clothing that hadn’t been there earlier. Just like the blood hadn’t been there.

Chance took perverse satisfaction in the fact that his old desk had gotten a little bit of the intruder since, with a curse, he realized what was missing.

The light on the antiquated answering machine was no longer flashing and he could tell even before he opened it that the tape would be gone.

It was.

Chapter Three

Chance woke to Christmas music on the radio and sunshine. Through the window, he could see that it was one of those incredible Montana winter days when the sky is so blue it’s blinding.

He could also see that it had snowed most of the night, leaving a good foot on the level. He dug out early, knowing it was going to be a long day as he cleared off the deck, then started shoveling his way to his pickup.

The moment Chance had opened the door, Beauregard bounded outside to race around in the powder. Half the time the dog had his head stuck down in it, coming up covered with snow, making Chance smile. All he could think as he shoveled was that his daughter would have loved this.

Once he had a path to the pickup, he loaded Beauregard in the front seat—against his better judgment. Sure enough, the first thing the darned dog did was shake. Snow and chunks of ice and water droplets flew everywhere.

Chance swore, brushed off his seat and climbed in after the dog. The pickup already smelled like wet dog and he knew it wasn’t going to get better as he started the engine, shifted into four-wheel drive for the ride out and turned on the heater.

Beauregard, worn out by all the fun he’d been having, curled up in the corner of the seat and fell asleep instantly.

Chance turned his attention to navigating the road out of the cabin—and thinking about Dixie Bonner. Last night, after finding his office had been broken into, he’d checked his Caller ID. He recognized all but one of the calls that had come in—a long-distance number with an area code he didn’t recognize. There had been eight calls from that number.

Dixie?

When he checked with the operator, she informed him that the area code was from a cell phone out of Texas. He was betting it was Dixie Bonner. But if she had a cell phone number, why hadn’t her father given it to him?

He’d tried the number and got an automated voice mail. He hadn’t left a message.

This morning he drove up the road far enough away from the shadow of the mountain that he figured he might be able to get cell phone service and tried the number again. Same automated voice mail.

He hung up without leaving a message and drove on up the lake to his favorite place to eat breakfast. Lake Café was at the crossroads. Anyone headed his way would have to stop at the four-way.

According to Beauregard Bonner, Dixie Bonner drove a bright red Mustang with Texas plates. Add to that a Southern accent and, no doubt, the Bonner family arrogant genes. All total, Dixie would be a woman who would stand out in a crowd. Especially a Montana one.

Chance took a booth by the window, figuring he wouldn’t miss a red Mustang with Texas plates when it came by this way because he was betting he would see her before the day was out.

A radio was playing back in the kitchen. Country and western Christmas music. Another reminder that he should be at home in front of the fire, feet up, dozing on a day like this with Beauregard sprawled at his feet.

Instead he was chasing a damned Bonner.

To lighten his mood, he thought about what he would do when he had her. Christmas or no Christmas, he wasn’t in a joyous let alone forgiving frame of mind. If Bonner was right about this kidnapping being bogus, then it was high time someone taught Dixie Bonner a lesson she wouldn’t soon forget.

And this morning, Chance Walker felt like the man who could do it.

OLIVER WAS NOWHERE around the next morning when Rebecca woke up. She just assumed he’d gone to work already but as she came down the stairs she saw her uncle Carl heading down the hallway toward Oliver’s den.

“Good morning, Rebecca.” Carl was older than his brother Beauregard, about the same size but nothing like her father in nature. Carl was quiet and less driven. A whole lot less driven.

“Is Daddy here?” She couldn’t help being confused. It wasn’t like Carl to stop by unless there was a family dinner of some kind going on.

“I just stopped in to see Oliver,” Carl said as she descended the stairs.

“Oh.” Rebecca couldn’t imagine what Carl would want to see her husband about. Both were employed by Bonner Unlimited, but it was no secret that neither had anything to do there.

And she knew that Carl had never approved of Oliver. She remembered when she’d announced her engagement to Oliver. Carl had taken her aside and asked her if she was sure this was what she wanted.

She’d been angry with her uncle that day and had brought up the fact that he wasn’t one to give advice on relationships given that he’d never married.

“The woman I wanted was in love with someone else,” was all he’d said. “I couldn’t bring myself to settle for anyone else.”

“Oliver is the man I want,” she’d snapped.

“I just want you to be happy.” He’d kissed her on the cheek and left her feeling terrible because she’d been unkind to her favorite uncle. But also, she realized now, because he’d been right to question her choice.

“Rebecca?”

She blinked.

Carl had stopped in the hallway and was studying her. “Is everything all right?”

She forced herself to smile. “Fine.”

He nodded. “You have a good day, okay?” he said pleasantly as he smiled, then continued down the hall to the den.

She watched him open the den door without knocking and step in, closing it behind him. He wasn’t smiling, she noticed, when he closed the door. Did this have something to do with Daddy going to Montana? Was Uncle Carl who her husband had been talking to last night on the phone?

No, she thought. More than likely he’d been on the phone with the one person who resented Daddy even more than Oliver—her father’s cousin, Ace Bonner. Ace, who was Daddy’s age, had recently gotten out of prison.

Daddy being Daddy, he had given Ace a job at Bonner Unlimited. She got so sick of her father feeling guilty for having so much money. He wore it like a chip on his shoulder. No matter how arrogant he came off, Beauregard Bonner didn’t feel he measured up, and she hated that about him.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she heard raised voices, startling her. Carl never raised his voice. What had Oliver done now? Something that Carl was upset about. Let it have something to do with Bonner Unlimited, she thought. Just like Dixie being in Montana. Just don’t let it have anything to do with me.

Rebecca had enough problems. But as she headed for the kitchen, desperately needing coffee, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her world was on the verge of crumbling around her.

She found the nanny in the kitchen with the children. Amy was pounding on the high-chair tray, splashing milk everywhere. Tanya was yelling for the nanny, Ingrid, to do something about Amy. And Linsey was on her cell phone talking to her best friend Miranda.

“I’m going out,” Rebecca called to Ingrid, trying to escape before the nanny took the spoon away from Amy. As Rebecca hustled back upstairs, she shut off Amy’s shrieks only after reaching her bedroom and closing the door. When the house was built, she’d had extra insulation put around their bedroom for privacy. At least that’s what she told the builders.

She hadn’t wanted her sleep disturbed by the children waking up in the middle of the night. That’s what she had a nanny for. A light sleeper, she had to have the room a certain temperature and complete darkness. And she had the money to get exactly what she wanted.

As she climbed into the shower, she thought about her lunch date with her best friend Samantha “Pookie” Westbrook. Pookie was everything Rebecca had always wanted to be. The daughter of a well-known Houston old-money family with an impeccable reputation and the grace and charm of Texas royalty.

Imagining as she often did what her life would have been like if she’d been the Westbrook’s daughter instead of Pookie, kept Rebecca from worrying about what Oliver and Uncle Carl had been arguing about in the den.

AFTER ORDERING his breakfast, Chance stepped outside to see if he could get cell phone service. It was always iffy in the mountains. He’d never been able to get a signal at the cabin, which was just fine with him.

He dug his cell out, cursing the damned thing, and on impulse, first tried the cell phone number again that had been on the Caller ID at his office. He got voice mail again and again didn’t leave a message. Then he dialed the number Bonner had left for him.

“Hello?” Beauregard Bonner boomed.

“It’s Chance. Any word from Dixie?” He’d been holding his breath, hoping Dixie had found her way home. Or at least there’d been some contact.

“Nothing,” Bonner said. “I just flew into Houston and was going to find my other daughter.”

Chance thought about telling Bonner to say hello to Rebecca, but instantly came to his senses. “Do you have a cell phone number for Dixie?”

“No. I’m sure she has one. I tried to get the number, but couldn’t.”

Chance smiled to himself, hearing the frustration in Bonner’s voice. Even Beauregard Bonner didn’t get everything he wanted.

“I’ll let you know when I come up with something,” Chance said and snapped the phone shut.

Back in the café, he kept an eye on the four-way stop, hoping he was right about Dixie. Of course, that brought up the question of why she was zigzagging across the state, why she was headed his way in the first place. If she even was.

All he could guess was that Dixie Bonner liked to play games—just like her father.

As Chance waited for his breakfast, he dumped the contents of the manila envelope Beauregard Bonner had given him out onto the table. Last night he’d looked at the credit card report, convinced like the police and FBI that Dixie was anything but the victim of a kidnapping.

Disgusted, he hadn’t even bothered to see what else Bonner had provided him. But this morning, as the contents of the envelope spilled onto the table, a photograph fell out and he recalled that Bonner had said all he had was an older photo of Dixie.

It was a three-by-five, shot by a professional in a studio, and appeared to be Dixie Bonner’s high school graduation photo.

Strange, Bonner didn’t have a more recent photo of his youngest daughter. Not a snapshot taken at some birthday party, Christmas or family get-together. Chance wondered if that didn’t say a lot about the Bonners and what had been going on with that family since he’d left Texas.

He stared at the young woman in the photo. Pixielike, her hair was cropped short and dyed a glaring hot pink. At the center of thick black eyeliner were two twinkling blue eyes that radiated a mischief he remembered only too well. Dixie had always been cute. The cheekbones were high and maybe her best feature. Her lips were full and turned up in a devilish grin. A hellion. Just as her father had described her.

Chance chuckled to himself thinking Dixie probably was Beauregard Bonner’s comeuppance. Maybe there was justice on earth after all.

“REBECCA? Rebecca.”

Rebecca Bonner blinked.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said,” Pookie snapped irritably. They were having lunch at Rebecca’s favorite restaurant. She’d hoped that lunch with her friend would improve her mood. So far it had been having the opposite effect.

“What is going on with you today?” Pookie demanded.

Rebecca shook her head, realizing this had been a mistake. She should have gone shopping instead, bought something outrageously expensive and skipped lunch. “I think I might be coming down with something.”

Pookie did an eye-roll. “What is really bothering you? Is it the kids?”

It wasn’t the kids. Not that Rebecca had really wanted children in the first place. It was just something you did. Like the big house, the expensive car, the clothes and the husband.

She’d had a nanny from even before she brought Linsey home from the hospital. She gave the kids little thought except when they were screaming like this morning and she had so much on her mind.

“It’s not the kids.”

Pookie lifted one perfectly shaped brow. “What’s the bastard done now?”

“It’s not Oliver, either.” She sipped her strawberry daiquiri.

“Of course it is.”

“Have you heard something?” Rebecca asked, her heart starting to pound. Pookie often knew things almost before they happened. That was one reason Rebecca had called her for lunch today. If there was a rumor going around, Rebecca wanted to be the first to hear about it and make sure it got nipped in the bud quickly.

“I haven’t heard a thing.” Pookie held up three fingers. As if she was ever a Girl Scout. “And I can’t believe I wouldn’t have heard.”

Rebecca was counting on that. “You’d tell me at once if you did.”

“Of course.” Pookie looked worried. “Why, have you heard something about Adam?” Adam was her friend’s husband. A balding, pot-bellied, thirtysomething attorney at a top agency in the city who kept Pookie in a style even better than she’d been accustomed to—which said a lot given that Pookie was born to Houston society.

“Come on, what’s going on with you?” Pookie asked, leaning toward her, grinning. “Give. Who is he?”

Rebecca shook her head and tried to wave away Pookie’s protests. Pookie would be surprised if Rebecca told her that she hadn’t been with a man other than her husband in months. Her friend went through a lot of men and thought everyone else did, too.

“Come on. You and I have never kept secrets.”

Rebecca thought how naive Pookie was. Everyone kept secrets. Even from their best friends if they were smart.

“I told you about my pilates instructor.” Pookie pretended to pout.

“There isn’t anyone,” she said, feeling even worse. Not even Oliver. Except for that one night. He’d acted so strangely that night. She brushed the memory away, hating to remember his attempts at lovemaking. They’d never made love that she could recall. Intimacy at their house was more like a corporate takeover.

“Oliver’s been acting…strange,” Rebecca confided, seeing no harm in the obvious.

Pookie lifted a brow as if to ask how she could tell. “Well, if it isn’t another woman…”

“He’s involved in some kind of deal at work. I’m sure that’s all it is. He has this thing about winning.” That, she knew, was his form of orgasmic release. He had never seemed that interested in sex. Or maybe it was just her he wasn’t interested in.

Pookie narrowed her eyes, studying her. “There isn’t a man? Come on, I saw that look in your eye.”

Rebecca groaned, knowing her friend would keep after her until she gave her something. “I was thinking about Chance Walker,” she said, and braced herself for her friend’s reaction.

WHEN HIS FOOD arrived—his usual—a slab of bone-in ham, two eggs over easy, hash browns and whole-wheat toast with blackberry jam, Chance placed the picture next to his plate, studying it periodically as he ate.

If he was right and the photograph was taken eleven years ago, who knew how much Dixie Bonner had changed. She was probably more outrageous than ever.

He shook his head as he thought about the kid he’d known. Would he even recognize her now?

“Girlfriend?” the waitress asked, moving for a better look at the photo.

“Not hardly. Actually, it’s a case I’m working on. Any chance you’ve seen her? She’d be eleven years older than when this was taken.”

Lydia, an older, stocky woman, shook her head. “Sorry. And believe me I would have remembered the hair if it was still that color.”

“I have a feeling this one has tried it all,” he said, looking at Dixie’s photo.

“You sound like you know her.”

“Used to, when she was twelve,” he said with an amused shake of his head. “She was hell on wheels back then. I just assumed she would grow up and be more like her sister.”

Lydia raised a brow.

“I dated her older sister.” It surprised him the regret he heard in his voice. Not that he hadn’t married Rebecca. Just that things had ended so badly.

“First love?”

“I guess it was. She went away to college back east and met someone…” Someone more appropriate. “I hear she has three kids now and her husband is a hotshot attorney in Houston.”

Lydia put a hand on his shoulder. “Honey, something tells me you are better off without her.”

Chance laughed. “I have no doubt about that.”

“Want the rest of that ham wrapped up for Beauregard?” she asked as she cleared his table.

“Please.” He put everything back in the manila envelope, including Dixie’s picture, finished his coffee and took the envelope and foil-wrapped ham out to the pickup.

Beauregard devoured the ham in one bite and waited for more as Chance started the pickup. “Sorry, bud, that’s it until dinner.”

Taking out the map of Montana, he stared at the jagged line he’d drawn on it last night as he’d traced Dixie Bonner’s route.

Dixie hadn’t come to him, so that meant he’d have to go to her. If he was right, there was a definite pattern to her movements. She was headed his way. All he could figure was that she didn’t want anyone to know it.

Chance found that pretty humorous since someone obviously knew and had gone to some trouble to break into his office to take his answering machine tape. He wondered what message she’d left and why it was important to whoever was apparently looking for her.

He planned to ask her when he saw her.

There was also the remote possibility that she really had been kidnapped, that the kidnapper had foolishly left eight messages on his machine. But that brought up the question of why call him? Also, what kidnapper would leave eight messages on his machine?

He figured no matter what was going on, Dixie wouldn’t have left her location or where she was headed on his answering machine. And neither would her kidnappers.

Chance swore and headed down the lake and eventually into town, figuring she should be here today if she continued her traveling pattern. The day was brilliant, the sky a deep blue, the mountains glistening white, the sun blinding overhead.

He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a light-colored panel van pull out behind him.

“YOU WERE THINKING about Chance Walker?” Pookie cried, then ducked her head as several of the nearby diners frowned over at her. “Why?” she asked in a hushed whisper. “It wasn’t like you were ever serious about him. Marrying him would have been social suicide.”

Rebecca nodded. All true. She hadn’t even considered marrying Chance. But what she hadn’t told Pookie was that she’d thought he would stay around Houston. She would have had an affair with him in a heartbeat.

She’d never dreamed Chance would go to Montana to work for the summer and not return to Texas. One of the secrets she’d never told Pookie was about the breakup. Pookie had always assumed that Rebecca had broken it off with Chance because she’d met Oliver and he was the better catch hands down.

What Pookie didn’t know and never would was that Chance had been the one to break off their relationship. He’d figured out that she’d never planned to marry him. Oliver knew she’d been dumped and had never let her forget it. The bastard.

So even if Chance had stayed around Houston, she doubted he would have been up for an affair. Just the thought made her angry and upset.

And now her sister was in Montana.

With Chance?

The thought killed her appetite.

“Why are you even thinking about Chance at this late date?” Pookie demanded quietly.

“I wasn’t. It’s just that I think Daddy is in Montana and it made me think of Chance.” At least she assumed that was the “son of a bitch” Oliver had been referring to, and Oliver had said something about Dixie.

Pookie started to say something, then stopped as she looked past Rebecca and smiled. “Well, he’s not in Montana anymore,” she said under her breath as Rebecca heard someone approach the table from behind her.

IN HIS REARVIEW mirror Chance watched the van coming up the road behind him. The two-lane highway ran along the lake, over the dam, then headed south to Townsend where his office was located. This time of year, the road got little traffic with most of the places on the lake closed up for the winter.

Chance slowed to give the driver of the van the opportunity to pass. The van slowed, as well, staying right with him, and confirming his suspicions.

As the road began to snake around the north end of the lake, Chance sped up. The van sped up, too, the driver doing his best to stay with him, even taking some dangerous curves too fast, leaving little doubt that the driver was determined not to lose him.

Fortunately this morning there was no other traffic on the road. As Chance came around a corner with a nice wide deep ditch on each side, he braked, coming to a stop, blocking both lanes.

The van came flying around the corner. The driver hit his brakes but clearly realized there was no way he could stop on the snow-packed road and aimed the van for the ditch.

Chance pulled his pickup over to the side of the road and, taking the shotgun from the rack behind the pickup seat, jumped out to bound down into the snowy ditch to jerk open the driver’s side door.

He shoved the shotgun in the man’s face. “Why the hell are you following me?”

“Easy,” the man cried, throwing his hands up. “I’m a private eye. Just like you.”

Chance swore at the man’s thick Texas drawl. “Who the hell are you?”

“Let me reach into my jacket…”

“No way.” Chance reached in and withdrew the man’s wallet—and a 9 mm pistol. He chucked the pistol over the top of the van where it disappeared in the deep snow. The wallet he flipped open to the man’s ID. J. B. Jamison, Private Investigator, Houston Texas.

“Who hired you?” Chance asked as he tossed the wallet into the back of the empty van. Not that he didn’t already know the answer.

“Bonner. Beauregard Bonner.”

“What the hell did he hire you to do?” Chance demanded. “Follow me?”

“Find his daughter and take her back to Texas.”

Chance was still pointing the shotgun at the man. “And that has what to do with me?”

“Bonner told us she might contact you.”

So that was it. Beauregard was covering his bets. Setting Chance up because he thought Dixie would come to him. But lacking faith that Chance could get Dixie back to Texas. Now why was that?

“So you broke into my office and stole my answering machine tape,” Chance accused.

The man looked genuinely surprised. “No. I was just tailing you, hoping you’d lead me to Ms. Bonner. That’s all.”

“Roll up your pant legs,” Chance ordered. “Whoever broke into my office scraped his leg on my desk.”

Jamison didn’t look happy about it, but he pulled up one pant leg, then the other. No sign he’d been the one to get hung up on the desk.

“Get out.”

Jamison looked out at the deep snow, then at Chance and the shotgun. “I didn’t break into your office. There is no reason to—”

“Out.” Chance stepped back so the Texas P.I. could get out of the van. The man stepped gingerly into the deep snow. He wore loafers and slacks, although he’d been smart enough to get himself a down coat.

Chance quickly frisked the man, found no other weapon and ordered Jamison to walk out a dozen yards, through the snow and trees, from the van.

While the man’s back was turned, Chance threw the van’s keys into the snow and searched the van.

No answering machine tape. But what Chance did find shocked him. In the back of the van was everything a man would need to hog-tie and bind a woman to transport her back to Texas.

He felt sick as he left J. B. Jamison cursing him to hell beside the road and drove off. That bastard Bonner hadn’t mentioned he put another P.I. on the case let alone that he’d sent the man to bring Dixie back to Texas.

Chance’s job was to find Dixie. Period.

Under most circumstances, Chance would have quit right there. But after what he’d seen in the back of Jamison’s van, he was afraid for Dixie Bonner and even more anxious to find her.

Chapter Four

Rebecca froze as she felt her father come up to her table from behind her.

“Well, look who it is,” Pookie gushed. “My favorite man. I hope you’re planning to join us.” Pookie had the irritating habit of flirting with older men. Especially the ones with money and few had more money than Daddy. Her friend rose demurely to plant a kiss on Beauregard’s check.

“You are a sinful woman,” Daddy said to Pookie, but clearly enjoyed the attention. “Rebecca,” he said with a nod as he stepped around to face her. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word.

She and her father rarely spoke. He never seemed to know what to say to her. He could talk for hours with Dixie. But then, Dixie was his favorite, no matter what he said. Oh, he tried to make Rebecca feel loved. That was the problem. He tried too hard, as if it didn’t come naturally the way it did with Dixie.

“What brings you into town?” Rebecca asked as sweetly as she could while pasting a smile on her face. “Are you meeting someone?” she added, looking around the restaurant expectantly, all the time hoping he was.

“Samantha, honey, could you excuse us for a moment?”

Pookie gave Rebecca a curious look. “Of course. I’ll just go powder my nose.”

Beauregard Bonner took a seat across from his daughter and she saw that he was upset. She braced herself, afraid suddenly of what he was going to tell her.

“Have you seen your sister?” he asked.

She blinked, so taken off guard that she wasn’t even sure she’d heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your sister. Dixie. You might remember her from last Christmas? No, that’s right, you went back east for Christmas.”

She didn’t like his tone. “I remember my sister,” she said coldly. He always blamed her that she and Dixie weren’t closer. She was the oldest, he’d say, as if that made a difference.

“I believe you missed Christmas, as well,” she shot back. “Jamaica, wasn’t it? What was her name? Carmella? Lupita? I lose track.”

Her father didn’t seem to hear. He was trying to get the waiter’s attention, no doubt for a drink.

She couldn’t care less about last Christmas. Or the one before it. They’d never been that kind of family. They might have been, if her mother had lived. But she hadn’t.

“What has Dixie done now?” She tried to sound bored by this conversation, but her heart was pounding. What had Dixie done?

“Have you talked to her lately?” he asked.

She frowned. “No, Daddy, I haven’t. How about you?”

“She’s…missing.”

Rebecca laughed, politely of course, since they were in one of Houston’s most elite restaurants. Another reason she really didn’t want to have a discussion about her sister here, now.

“She’s always…missing. I really don’t see what that has to do with me.” Rebecca picked up her bag from the chair next to her and started to rise. “I’m sorry, Daddy, but I really must get going. Please give my apologies to Pookie.”

“Sit down.” He hadn’t raised his voice, fortunately. But she knew by his tone that he could at any moment. He had no compunction against making scenes. In fact, he seemed to enjoy them as if he never wanted to forget his poor white-trash roots. As he was fond of saying, “If Houston society don’t like it, they can kiss my cherry-red ass.”

She sat back down.

“I think she might have been kidnapped,” he said quietly, and picked up her water glass and downed it. “How do you get a drink in this place?”

Rebecca caught the waiter’s eye and mouthed Scotch neat. She didn’t have to tell the waiter to make it the best they carried. That was a given.

“What makes you think she’s been kidnapped?” she asked carefully. Bringing up Dixie’s other shenanigans would only set her father off, although she would have loved to have listed them chapter and verse.

“I got a call.” The waiter set down the drink and Beauregard snatched it up, downing it in two gulps before motioning for the waiter to bring him another. “You don’t seem all that upset about it,” he said a little too loudly.

“Because I don’t believe it,” she said, keeping her voice low by example. She could always depend on her father to embarrass her. Oh, why couldn’t she have come from old money like Pookie and her other friends?

“The ransom demand is a million dollars.”

She stared at him. “You can’t be serious?”

He gave her a deadpan look.

“How silly of me. It’s Dixie. It is only a matter of time before she’ll want it all for some foolish cause of hers.” And Daddy will give it to her, Rebecca thought angrily. Oliver had warned her that Dixie would get everything in the end, hadn’t he? “So you paid it. What’s the problem?”

“Hell no, I didn’t pay it.”

The waiter set down another drink and looked nervously at Beauregard as if, like Rebecca, afraid he might be a problem.

Rebecca watched her father take one gulp. “You haven’t paid it yet?” This did surprise her.

“I’m not paying it.”

He would. Eventually. He always caved when it came to Dixie. “So what are you doing?”

“Obviously trying to find her.”

Rebecca glanced around the restaurant. “If you’d called, I could have told you she wasn’t here, Daddy.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why do you have to be such a bitch?”

His words stung more than she thought they would. She knew he was only striking out because he was worried about his other daughter. “Why do you have to be such an ass?” she hissed back at him.

He gripped his glass, anger in every movement as he downed the last of it, and carefully put it down.

She knew she’d gone too far. But she was sick of being the other daughter. The one her father never gave a concern to. “I heard you went to Montana.” She waited, hoping he would deny it.

“Who told you I went to Montana?”

She stared at her father. “You really did go?” She hadn’t meant to sound so shocked. But she was. So she’d been right about the “son of a bitch” Oliver had been referring to.

“Isn’t that what you just— Never mind,” he said, and motioned to the waiter for another drink. “That’s where I guess she is.”

This was all too surreal, especially on top of the two strawberry daiquiris she’d consumed—and what little she’d gleaned from Oliver’s phone conversation she’d overhead last night.

“I hired your old boyfriend to find her.”

There it was. She hadn’t been mistaken. She felt light-headed. For an instant she thought about pretending ignorance and saying, “What boyfriend would that be, Daddy?”

Instead she said, “You hired Chance Walker to find Dixie?” saying his name carefully as if the words were expensive crystal that were so fragile they might break otherwise.

“He’s a private detective. Damned good.”

Was that supposed to make her feel better?

Daddy was looking at her, studying her, his eyes glazed from the alcohol, but he wasn’t drunk. Nor was he stupid. “You were a fool not to marry him.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He picked up the fresh drink the waiter left on the table and stared down into it as if it were more fascinating than her by far.

“I beg your pardon?” she said again, leaning toward him over the table, working to keep her voice down. After all, she was part of this family and no stranger to loud, ugly scenes. Just not in public.

“You, of all people, know why I married Oliver,” she said, her voice low and crackling with fury. “To give this family respectability because even with all your money, Daddy, you couldn’t buy it, could you?”

He didn’t look at her, but what she saw on his face shocked her. Shame.

She felt sick. He’d known what she’d done and why. He’d never believed that she married Oliver for love. He’d known that she had sacrificed her own happiness for the family and he hadn’t even tried to stop her.

She rose from the table, picking up her purse, glaring down at him. “As I said, I have things to do.” She turned on her heel.

Just as he hadn’t stopped her from marrying Oliver, he didn’t stop her from leaving the restaurant.

CHANCE DROVE DOWN the road to where a wide spot had been plowed at the edge of the lake and pulled over. He tried to calm down before he called Bonner again.

“Hello?” Bonner sounded asleep. Or half-drunk. Because of the hour and the bar sounds in the background, Chance surmised it was the latter.

“What the hell are you trying to pull?” He’d planned to be calm, not to tell Bonner what he thought of him. But just the sound of the oilman’s voice set Chance off.

“Chance?”

“I just met the private eye you hired from Texas. J. B. Jamison. Want to tell me what the hell that was about?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“A Texas private investigator named J. B. Jamison.”

“He said I hired him? Well, he’s mistaken. You’re the only private investigator I hired.”

Chance swore. “Mistaken? How could he mistake that?”

“Maybe someone hired him using my name, but it wasn’t me,” Bonner snapped. “I give you my word.”

For what that was worth. It was all he could do not to tell Bonner what he thought of that. Instead, Chance thought of his own daughter.

“Someone broke into my office last night,” Chance said. “From what I can tell, it wasn’t Jamison. That means there is someone else looking for Dixie.”

“Well, I didn’t hire them,” Bonner said, sounding angry. “How many times do I have to say it?”

Chance shook his head, fighting to rein in his temper. If not Jamison, then who had broken into the office and taken the answering machine tape?

“Let’s be clear on this,” Chance said. “I’ll find your daughter. That’s what you’re paying me to do. I’ll even give her a ride to the airport so she can return to Houston, if that’s what she wants. But I won’t let anyone use the kinds of methods Jamison does and hog-tie her and haul her across state lines all the way back to Texas. That’s kidnapping and I won’t be a part of it no matter what’s going on between you and Dixie.”

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