Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  When Ken finally relented and called her, he wanted desperately to see her. Their reconciliation was tender and passionate by turns. He was impatient to get married; she felt the same. They set a tentative date for their wedding and asked both families to gather at Belle Terre for a party.

  But Tricia stole the show.

  She wore blue that day, a shade exactly the color of her eyes. Schyler had told her earlier how pretty she looked. Schyler had loved the entire world that day. Everybody and everything was beautiful.

  In the midst of all the gaiety, Tricia had sidled up to Ken and taken his hand. "Everybody, everybody, can I please have your attention?" When the laughter and conversation died down, she smiled up at Ken and said, "Honey, I sup­pose I should have told you first and in private, but it seems so appropriate to tell you now, when the people we love most dearly are here with us." Then she had drawn a deep breath and, with a jubilant smile, announced, "I'm going to have your baby."

  According to his facial expression, Ken was as stunned as anyone there. He looked flabbergasted, embarrassed, ill. But he didn't deny his responsibility, not even when Schyler turned to him with disbelief and silently begged him to.

  Any solution other than marriage was out of the ques­tion. Within days and with very little fanfare, Tricia and Ken were married in a civil ceremony. Eight weeks later Tricia miscarried.

  But by that time, Schyler had left for Europe. When news of the miscarriage reached her, she felt nothing. Her heart had been as empty as Tricia's womb. Their betrayal had left her numb.

  In many ways, she still was. So when the bad memories darkly obscured the good ones, Ken's kiss evoked nothing but revulsion.

  Stepping off the elevator on the second floor of the hos­pital, Schyler thought that if Cotton didn't pull out of this, that if he died as a result of the massive heart attack, at least he would die in the knowledge that his life had amounted to something. So far, the same could not be said of her.

  Before she returned to England, she must come to terms with her feelings for Tricia and Ken and their treachery. If she didn't, she might remain stagnant forever. Until her mind and heart had finally closed the door on the past, she would be like a stalled engine, going nowhere, accom­plishing nothing.

  "Good evening," she said to the nurse she met in the hallway. "How is my father?"

  "Hello, Miss Crandall. There's no change. The doctor asked earlier if you had come in. He wants to see you."

  "He can find me outside my father's room."

  "I'll tell him."

  The nurse moved away to find the doctor. Schyler con­tinued down the corridor toward the last ICU. Through a narrow window she saw Cotton lying in a bed, connected to machines that bleeped and blinked his discouraging vital signs.

  Schyler's own heart ached to see the man she adored in this condition. Cotton, if he was aware of it, would hate being helpless. He had never been dependent on anyone. Now, the most elemental body functions were being done for him by sophisticated machinery. It didn't seem possible that such a robust man could be lying there motionless, colorless, useless.

  Laying her palm against the cool glass, Schyler whis­pered, "Daddy, what's wrong? Tell me."

  Their estrangement had roots in that horrible day when the gods had decided that Schyler Crandall had had enough good luck and had hurled a life's worth of misfortune at her in the space of one afternoon.

  After the bewildered guests had departed, after Ken and Tricia had left to handle the necessary legal aspects of get­ting married, Schyler had gone to Cotton, expecting him to envelope her in his loving and sympathetic embrace.

  Instead he'd metamorphosed into a stranger. He refused to look directly at her. He brusquely set her aside when she collapsed against his wide chest. He treated her coolly. Until that day Schyler had been the apple of his eye. But on that miserable afternoon, when Schyler suggested that she go abroad for a while, Cotton had approved the idea. He hadn't been angry. He hadn't ranted and raved. She wished he had. That would have been familiar. She could have dealt with his short temper.

  But he had treated her with indifference. That had pierced Schyler to the core. Cotton was indifferent only to people he had absolutely no use for. Schyler could not un­derstand why her father no longer showed the tender affec­tion she so desperately needed.

  So she had left Belle Terre and moved to London. The rift between Cotton and her had grown wider with each year. Other than a letter every several months, and a few civil but chilly telephone conversations on holidays, they had had no formal contact.

  He didn't seem to mind. It was as though he'd dismissed her from his life for good. She didn't want him to die harboring the secret grudge. Her greatest fear was that she would never know what had turned him against her, what had changed her from pet to pariah.

  "I'm not going to have two patients on my hands, am I?"

  The doctor's voice roused her. She raised her bowed head and wiped tears off her cheeks. "Hello, Dr. Collins." She smiled waveringly. "I'm fine. Just very tired." He looked skeptical but didn't pursue it, for which Schyler was grateful. "Any change?"

  Jeffrey Collins was a young man who had decided to set up practice in a small community hospital rather than battle the competition in a large city. As he studiously consulted the chart on Cotton Crandall, he reminded Schyler of a boy about to give an oral book report in front of the class, wanting to do well.

  "Nothing significant."

  "Is that good or bad?"

  "Depends on which way you look at it. If it's a change for the worse, we'd rather do without."

  "Of course."

  "What the patient needs is bypass surgery. Triple, maybe quadruple. The pictures of his chest indicate that." He snapped closed the metal cover of the chart. "But he isn't strong enough yet. We've got to wait, build up his strength, and hope that he doesn't have another attack be­fore we can go in."

  "'We'?"

  "The resident cardiologist, the general surgeon, and I."

  She looked away, trying to think of a graceful way to put what she had to say. "Dr. Collins, at the risk of sounding ungrateful for everything you've already done, and doubt­ful of your ability—"

  "You wonder if I know what the hell I'm doing?"

  She smiled helplessly. "Yes. Do you know what the hell you're doing?"

  "I don't blame you for wondering. We're a small hospi­tal. But the financial backers who built this facility, your father included, spared no expense. The equipment has the latest technology available. The staff is well paid. We're not doctors and surgeons who couldn't find jobs anywhere else. It's just that we wanted a small-town environment for our families."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that you weren't competent or qualified."

  He held up his hand, indicating that no offense had been taken. "When the time comes for surgery, if you want to have Mr. Crandall moved to another hospital, I'll be glad to make the arrangements for you and do whatever it takes to move him safely. I wouldn't advise that he be moved now, however."

  "Thank you, doctor. I appreciate your candor. I hope you appreciate mine."

  "I do."

  "And I don't think it'll be necessary to have him trans­ferred."

  "That's gratifying to know."

  They smiled at each other. "Can I go in and see him now?"

  "Two minutes. By the way, I recommend that you catch up on your meals and start getting more rest. You look none too healthy yourself. Good night."

  He set off down the hall with a confident stride that belied his wet-behind-the-ears appearance. Schyler took comfort in that as she nodded a greeting to the nurse moni­toring the life-saving equipment and stepped into the ICU. Despite the bright fluorescent lighting, the room was se­pulchral.

  She tiptoed to the bed. Cotton's eyes were closed. A tube had been inserted into his mouth, held in place by tape across his lips. Smaller tubes had been placed in his nos­trils. Wires and conduits and catheters attached to the var­ious machines disapp
eared beneath the sheet covering him. She could only guess at their unpleasant functions.

  The only thing that was familiar was his shock of white hair. Tears blurred her eyes as Schyler reached out and ran her fingers through it. "I love you, Daddy." He didn't stir. "Forgive me for whatever I did." She used up the full two minutes before she kissed his forehead and quietly left the room.

  Only after the door closed behind her did Cotton Crandall open his eyes.

  Chapter Five

  Tricia and Ken were in the throes of an argument. From the steps of the veranda, Schyler could see them through the parlor windows. An authentic Aubusson rug was their arena. They were squared off across its muted, pastel pat­tern. Their voices were muffled, so she couldn't distin­guish individual words. She didn't have to. They were gesturing angrily.

  Stepping out of the wedge of light coming through the window, she went back down the steps. She didn't want to intrude or have them see her, especially if she were the source of the squabble.

  Surely Tricia hadn't seen Ken kissing her before she left for the hospital. Tricia wouldn't have stayed undercover, waiting until Schyler left to confront her husband. She would have charged out of the house immediately and challenged them both.

  The visit to the hospital had left Schyler emotionally drained. She didn't want to join the fracas going on in the formal parlor, so she left her purse and keys lying on the hood of her car and struck out across the lawn.

  Maybe the exercise would exhaust her enough to make her sleep. She had been tired every night since her arrival but had lain awake, thinking about Cotton, thinking about Tricia and Ken, thinking about them sleeping together in the room down the hall from hers. She hated herself for still caring about that. But she did.

  And because she did, it was curious that Ken's kiss hadn't affected her more than it had. For the last six years she had fancied herself still in love with him. The first kiss, after so long and heartbreaking a separation, should have electrified her, regardless that she was kissing her sister's husband. Yet all she had felt was a vague sadness, a sense of loss, which she couldn't explain.

  That was just one of the things troubling Schyler as she made her way across the wide lawn and entered the sur­rounding forest. The evening air was sultry, only margin­ally cooler than it had been at sunset. Her footsteps disturbed patches of mist that hovered above the ground. Ethereally, it swirled around her ankles and climbed her calves. It could have been a spooky sensation, but Schyler regarded these patches of fog as friendly.

  She followed the narrow path that paralleled the road for a few hundred yards before angling off to the left. From there, it meandered through the woods on a gradual decline until it reached the fertile banks of the bayou.

  Here, on the higher terrain, there were a few hardwoods, trailing the harmless Spanish moss from their branches. But mostly there were pines, reproducing themselves prolifically until they gave way to the cypress and willow and cottonwood that claimed the muddy shore of the bayou as their domain.

  Almost as soon as she could say her ABCs, Schyler could name every tree in the woods. She had never forgot­ten them. She remembered Cotton's forestry lessons well. She knew the forest by sight, touch, and smell. Her ears could still attach a label to each familiar sound.

  Except one.

  And it came upon her so swiftly that she didn't even have time to wonder about it until the vicious, snarling dog was blocking her path.

  The animal had seemingly emerged from hell and sprung out of the marshy ground to stand only a few feet in front of her. His body was sturdy, with a deep and heavily mus­cled chest. His face was triangular and had a blunt snout. His sharply pointed tail curved in an upward arc that was aggressive and hostile. He was short-haired, an unattrac­tive, mottled blend of black and brown and tan. Wide-set eyes glittered up at her. His snarling mouth drooled. He stood with his feet planted far apart, like a sailor on the deck of a tall ship. He was ugly, extremely ugly, the most menacing creature Schyler had ever seen. His sinister growl was terrifying in itself.

  Instinctively she sucked in and held her breath. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. When she raised her hand to it, the animal lurched forward and gave three sharp, rap­ping barks.

  She froze, not wanting to alarm the dog by moving a muscle. "Down, boy, down." The words were ridiculously trite. This wasn't an amiable pet. There wasn't a single friendly aspect to his character. This animal was a killer. His growl modified to a low vibration in his throat, but Schyler wasn't foolish enough to think that he was backing down.

  Crying out for help would be futile. She was too far from the house. Besides, the sudden noise might provoke the short-tempered animal to attack her. But this Mexican standoff couldn't last forever. She decided to chance a half step backward. The dog didn't seem to notice, so she took another. Then another.

  When she had put several yards between them, she de­cided to turn and make her way swiftly along the path toward the house. She wouldn't break into a run because he was certain to chase her. But she wouldn't waste any time either.

  Dreading the risky result, she turned. The instant she did, the dog barked another sharp threat. The sound was so abrupt, so startling and loud, that she stumbled and fell. The dog lunged at her. Schyler rolled to her back, covered her face with her forearm, and knocked the powerful ani­mal aside with the other.

  Actually coming into physical contact with him was like living a hideous nightmare. His moist breath was hot on her arm. She felt rise scrape of sharp teeth on her skin. Either his saliva or her own blood felt sticky and wet as it trickled over her wrist. The bone in her arm almost cracked upon impact with the dog's broad skull. The blow numbed the nerves for several seconds.

  She had no doubt that the animal would rip out her throat if she couldn't stop it. Acting on sheer survival in­stinct, she groped behind her and picked up the first thing she laid her hand on, a fallen pine branch about as big around as her wrist. When the dog launched his next at­tack, she whacked him in the face as hard as she could. The blow landed solidly but didn't deter him. Indeed, it only infuriated him more.

  Swinging the pine branch wildly and, as a consequence, ineffectually, Schyler struggled to her feet and started to run. As she slashed her way through the trees, the dog was literally on her heels. She felt his teeth snapping at her thrashing ankles. Several times she barely escaped his clenching jaws.

  Suddenly, from out of nowhere, two brilliant lights cut through the forest as smoothly as a sythe through tall grass. They stopped on her like a searchlight that had found its target, blinding her. Mist and dust danced eerily in the twin beams. Reflexively, Schyler crossed her arms over her eyes.

  A piercing whistle rent the still, humid air. She sensed the dog's immediate attention. He ceased his snarling and barking and came to an abrupt standstill. Another shrill whistle galvanized him. He sped past her. His sweaty body brushed against her bare leg, nearly knocking her down. He plunged through the undergrowth in the direction of the bright lights.

  Schyler realized then that in her headlong plunge, she had almost reached the road. The lights belonged to a ve­hicle that had pulled to the shoulder. The steering wheel had been cut sharply to direct the headlights into the woods. She blinked into focus the shape of a pickup truck, made spectral by the cloud of dust that swirled around it.

  The noises coming from the truck were surreal. The en­gine was wheezing and knocking. And from the back of the truck came the raucous sound of barking dogs. They were in a frenzied state, rattling their metal cages as they clambered to get out. Schyler couldn't tell how many there were, but it sounded like every hound in hell.

  She reversed her direction and fled in tenor, certain that soon the whole bloodthirsty pack would be unleashed on her. She risked looking over her shoulder. The truck was backing up, the gears grinding. Then it turned onto the road and lumbered away. The forest was plunged into dark­ness again.

  But the barking continued, so Schyler kept running
from it, blindly clawing her way through the dense trees that had become alien. The moss that brushed against her cheek now was terrifying. Roots and vines were snares that wrapped around her ankles and tried to trap her in this nightmare. In vain, she fought off the mist that rose to embrace her in its ghostly arms.

  She actually screamed when she was brought up hard against a solid, impregnable body. She fought it, struggling to scratch and claw her way free. She was lifted up; her feet left the ground. She used them to kick.

  "Stop it! What in hell's name is the matter with you?"

  Despite her terror, Schyler realized that this phantom in her nightmare had a very human voice. He felt human, too. She flung her head back and looked up at him. It was the devil, all right.

  Cash Boudreaux was gazing down at her curiously. Sev­eral seconds lapsed, then he swung her up in his arms. Schyler was too relieved to argue. The dog's attack was still too recent for her not to welcome a larger, stronger presence than herself.

  Her breath came in short, swift pants that fanned his throat. She clutched the front of his shirt. She shuddered with revulsion at the recollection of the dog's slobbering, snarling mouth. But when the remnant horror began to re­cede, embarrassment set in.

  She drew in a long, unsteady breath. "You can put me down now, Mr. Boudreaux. I'm fine." He didn't set her down. He didn't even stop but kept walking in the direc­tion of the bayou. "Did you hear me?"

  "Oui."

  "Then please put me down. This is nice of you, but—"

  "I'm not being nice. It's just more convenient to carry you than drag you along behind me."

  "That's my point. I can manage alone."

  "You couldn't stand up. You're shaking too bad."

  That was true. From the marrow out, she was quaking like a dead leaf in a gale. Willing, at least for the moment, to concede the point to him, she let him carry her. "You're going the wrong way. The house is back there."