Free Mail Order Bride: Westward Christmas Novel (Montana Mail Order Brides, Book 11) by Linda Bridey

his daughter until she was ready to go play with her friend, Chelsea, down the road a piece.  Lacey was working on training a difficult mare, so making love to her was out for the moment. He would get to that activity later and that had nothing to do with needing a distraction. 
                  He knew there was no way he could go to the Watering Hole and resist temptation-at least that day.  No, he had to get his sea legs under him, so to speak, before he could attempt that.  There was one thing he could do; go over breeding charts.  That held his attention for all of an hour and he was back to square one.
                  “Damn it, Joe,” he said to himself.  He often talked to himself.  “Now, look here.  There’s got to be something you can do to take your mind off gambling.  You can’t go to see Black Fox because someone in the camp will want you to play a game of some sort.  There are no mares to breed, no horses for you to train at the moment, no meetings today, and your daughter and wife are otherwise engaged.  Aw, hell.  I need some other friends who have nothing to do with gambling.  That’s what I need.  The problem is that everyone else works during the day.  I do, too, but suddenly I have a lot of time on my hands.”
                  He got up from his desk and walked out through the house looking for his butler, Randall.  He could have rung the bell for the Brit, but his father used to do that.  He didn’t want to make Randall feel like just an employee who was at his beck and call.  Finding Randall in the front parlor, Joe said, “Randy, I need to pick that keen brain of yours a moment or three.”
                  Randall smiled.  “Of course, but I think you missed ‘two’ in there somewhere.”
                  Joe laughed.  “So I did.  Sit down here with me.”
                  Randall sat in one of the wingback chairs and crossed his legs elegantly.  “What is it, master?”
                  Joe frowned.  He hated it when Randall called him that.  Lying down on the sofa, Joe asked him, “What is it I do all day, exactly?”
                  Now Randall frowned.  “I don’t follow, sir.”
                  “I’ll rephrase the question,” Joe said.  “How much time out of my day do you think I spend gambling on things?  Be honest, Randy.”
                  Randall gave it careful consideration and didn’t answer Joe for several minutes.  Joe didn’t mind.  He’d rather a thoughtful, intelligent answer than a fast, stupid one.
                  Randall asked, “You want to know how many hours, sir?”
                  “Yes, sir, I do.”
                  Randall went back to puzzling out the answer.  He uncrossed and re-crossed his legs twice before saying, “Using probability calculations and a knowledge of your usual schedule, I would estimate at least eight.”
                  Joe sat up and swung his legs over the side of the sofa.  His hazel eyes were wide with disbelief.  “Eight hours?  I spend that much time gambling?”
                  Randall said, “Give or take an hour to allow for inaccuracies, but yes.  In that general area, I believe.”
                  Joe got up and began to pace back and forth in a way that told Randall that Joe was seriously agitated.
                  “Joe, what is it?” Randall said.
                  Joe told him about the bet he’d made with Ben.  “I spend a huge part of the day betting.  That’s a sad thing, Randy.  How is that possible?”
                  “May I speak frankly, sir?”
                  “Of course.”
                  “Because you bet on everything, and I am not exaggerating.  You even bet on what color tie George Levine will be wearing on