Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  "Aren't you?"

  "Yes. But I admit it. You make it sound like meeting me here was an act of charity. We both know better."

  She took another tack, reverting to seduction. Raising one knee, wagging it back and forth slowly and enticingly, she said, "I told Dale that I was going to sit with a sick friend and probably wouldn't be home until morning." She let the sheet fall. "We've got all night."

  Indifferent to her allure, Cash pulled on a pair of muddy cowboy boots and shoved his arms into a shirt, which he left unbuttoned. "You've got all night. I'm leaving."

  "Damn you."

  "The room's paid for. There's cable TV. You've got an ice machine right outside. What more could you want? Enjoy." He tossed the room key onto the bed beside her.

  "You bastard."

  "That's exactly right. Ask anybody." He gave her a cyn­ical smile and a mocking salute before slamming the motel door behind him.

  Chapter Seven

  They laughed at her.

  Breakfast was being served on the screened portion of the veranda at the back of the house. When Schyler made her outlandish statement, Tricia dropped the spoon she was using to dig out a Texas Ruby Red grapefruit. Ken clumsily replaced his coffee cup in the saucer. For a moment they stared at her with amazement, then simultaneously began laughing.

  Only minutes earlier Schyler had put in an appearance, already dressed for the day. By eight-thirty the humidity had topped ninety percent. It had made her hair wave and curl and cling to the back of her neck. Just in the few days since her arrival, the southern sun had streaked the strands nearest her face to a pale and appealing blond. The ban­dage on her arm had drawn attention immediately.

  "What in the world happened to your arm, Schyler?" Tricia had asked.

  Pouring herself a cup of coffee from the silver pot on the trolley and declining Mrs. Graves's stilted offer of a hot breakfast, she said, "I was attacked in the woods last night by a pit bull terrier."

  Tricia's eyes widened. "You're kidding!"

  "I wish I were."

  "They're vicious dogs."

  "I don't know about the whole breed, but this one was. It scared the living daylights out of me. It could have killed me."

  "The dog was in our woods?" Ken asked. "On Belle Terre?"

  "Yes. Only a few hundred yards from the house." Schyler recounted the incident for them, omitting any ref­erence to Cash Boudreaux.

  "You should have those bites looked at," Ken said wor­riedly.

  "They've been looked at. I had them treated last night." She was deliberately unspecific and hoped that neither of them would ask her for details. To avoid that, she said, "I intend to press charges against that Flynn character."

  That's when they reacted first with astonishment, then laughter. "Schyler, you can't sic the law on Jigger Flynn." Ken smiled at her patronizingly.

  "Why not?" she demanded. "There must be a local or state law he's violating by keeping those dogs."

  "There's not. Folks have been fighting pit bulls around here for a hundred years or more. Jigger doesn't let them roam free."

  "One was free last night."

  "It probably just got out of its pen by mistake."

  "A costly mistake. And that's not the first time. I heard that a child was attacked not long ago."

  "The kid was riding his bike past Jigger's place."

  "And that justifies him getting mauled?" she cried an­grily. "I intend to see that something is done to guard against that happening again."

  "Calling the sheriff won't do you any good. Oh, he might make a token visit out to Jigger's place, but they'll likely end up sharing a drink and a dirty joke."

  Schyler divided her disgust between her sister and Ken. "You expect me to just let this drop, pretend that it never happened, let bygones be bygones?"

  "That would probably be best, yeah." Ken got up, gave Tricia a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and Schyler a pat on the shoulder. "I'm due to tee off at ten. Bye-bye, girls."

  Schyler watched him leave with a blend of dismay and resentment. His dismissive attitude toward the dog attack made her furious and all the more determined not to let it pass without taking action against the animal's owner.

  She had rolled over and played dead only once in her life, when Tricia announced her pregnancy. Never again. She had learned there was no percentage in being a martyr. As often as not it earned one contempt, not respect.

  "I can't believe Ken wants me to let this drop. He's always been ready to crusade for the underdog, no pun intended."

  "When he was in college, Schyler. He grew up."

  "So you're suggesting that I grow up, too."

  "Yes," Tricia declared. "This isn't a campus. We're not trying to end a war or start one or find relief for migrant workers or equal education for black children." Tricia re­turned the uneaten half of her biscuit to her plate and licked the dripping butter and honey off her fingers. "You haven't been back a week yet. Don't go stirring up trouble, please."

  "I didn't start this. I wouldn't have even known that the damn dogs existed if one hadn't attacked me on my own property."

  Tricia let out a long sigh. "You just can't leave things alone, can you? You always were poking your nose into business that didn't concern you. Cotton encouraged your activist goings on, but they drove Mama and me to distrac­tion. They were an embarrassment. So. . . so unrefined." She leaned forward for emphasis. "This is my home, Schyler. Don't you dare do anything that's going to embar­rass me. I want to be able to hold my head up when I go into town."

  Schyler scraped back her chair and tossed her unused napkin into her empty plate. "If I can't get the authorities to do something about that menacing bootlegger and his vicious animals, I'll do something about it myself. And I don't give a damn how much embarrassment it causes you with the Junior League, Tricia."

  "He has showed signs of improvement in the last twelve hours," Dr. Collins told her when she arrived at the hospi­tal. "I'm being guardedly optimistic. If his condition con­tinues to improve, even this gradually, we should be able to operate within a week."

  "That's wonderful."

  "I said guardedly optimistic. He's still a very sick car­diac patient."

  "I understand." The doctor smiled at Schyler sympathet­ically. When someone's loved one had been as close to death as Cotton Crandall had been, relatives grasped at shreds of hope. "Can I see him?"

  "Same rules. Two minutes max every hour. But you might want to hang around for a while. He's been semicon­scious all morning."

  Schyler went to the pay telephone and notified Tricia of the good news, putting aside the argument they'd had ear­lier that morning. Then she was allowed into her father's ICU for two minutes. She was disappointed that he didn't wake up or otherwise acknowledge that he knew she was at his bedside, but she was encouraged by the doctor's report. Even the nurse's reassuring smile seemed more genuine.

  Tricia and Ken arrived early in the afternoon. The three of them whiled away the hours in the hospital waiting room, taking turns going into the ICU once every hour.

  Boredom set in. Eventually Ken said, "Schyler, why don't you come on home with us?"

  "You two go ahead. I'll be home in time for dinner. I'd like to see him one more time before I leave."

  "All right." Ken led his wife to the elevator. They waved at Schyler before the doors slid closed. Sick of looking at the same four walls, Schyler strolled along the gleaming corridors, thinking that she should call Mark.

  He had been generous to let her leave without having any idea how long she would be gone. He hadn't even asked. He had helped her pack, had driven her to Heathrow, had kissed her good-bye, and told her to call if she needed anything. He had been as concerned for her as he was for Cotton, whom he'd never met but had certainly heard a lot about.

  Schyler decided to wait until Cotton's prognosis was more definite before she called him. There was no sense in phoning until she had something substantial to report, ex­cept that she missed him terribl
y. She would take comfort just in hearing the familiar sound of his nasal Boston ac­cent.

  "Miss Crandall?"

  She spun around. "Yes?" The nurse was smiling. "Daddy?"

  "He's awake. Hurry."

  Schyler followed the nurse's rapid footsteps down the corridor and into the ICU. Cotton didn't look much better than he had last night, though Schyler thought his com­plexion didn't look quite so waxy and that the blue tinge of his lips had faded somewhat. Being careful of the IVs, she lifted his hand and pressed it between both of hers.

  "Daddy, hi. It's Schyler. I've been here for several days. How are you feeling? We've all been so worried. But the doctor says you're going to be fine."

  The lines in his face were etched deeper. The skin be­neath his stubborn, square chin was looser. His hairline had receded. But it was his eyes that arrested her. They had undergone the most remarkable change since she'd last seen him. The change made her own heart sink heavily in her chest. His eyes were the same vivid color of blue, but there was no light in them, no spark of mischief, no life.

  His heart condition wasn't responsible for that lifelessness. Schyler knew that she had extinguished that light in his eyes. What she didn't know was what she had done to put it out.

  "You've come back." His voice was as whispeiy and fragile as ancient paper. There wasn't a degree of warmth behind it.

  "Yes, Daddy, I'm back. I'm at Belle Terre. For as long as you need me."

  He stared up at her for a long moment. Then his veiny eyelids closed over those condemning blue eyes and he turned his head away.

  The nurse stepped forward. "He's gone back to sleep, Miss Crandall. We'd better not disturb him anymore."

  Schyler reluctantly released her father's hand and moved away from the bed. She watched the nurse make adjust­ments on the IVs. Feeling empty and alone, she left the room and the hospital.

  No daughter had ever loved her father more than Schyler loved Cotton. And vice versa. Only he had stopped loving her. Six years ago. Why? She had been the injured party. Why had he turned against her? Whyl

  The accumulated heat inside her car was unbearable. Even set on high, the air conditioner wasn't sufficient to cool it off, so she rolled down the windows. The wind tore at her hair punishingly. She took the winding road that was as familiar as her own face in a mirror. Her heart began to beat with glad expectation as she crossed the Laurent Bayou bridge. The road came to a dead end in front of Crandall Logging.

  It was Saturday afternoon. The landing was deserted. No one was working in the yard or on the loading platforms that lined the railroad tracks. The rigs were parked beneath the enormous shed, their trailers folded up and riding pig­gyback on the cabs. The air wasn't punctuated by the racket of loggers hauling the timber from the surrounding forests. There was no sound of machinery, no clank of metal wheels on the rails. Except for a few chirping birds, everything was still and silent.

  She left her car door open and went toward the small, square, frame building that housed the office. The key that was still on her key ring fit the lock. It hadn't been changed in six years. The door swung open and she stepped inside.

  It was stifling. She left the door open behind her. The late afternoon sun cast her shadow across the dull, scarred floor and over the top of Cotton's desk. Unfiled paperwork and unopened correspondence littered it. It always had. He would procrastinate doing the clerical chores for months. Schyler would catch up with them during school holidays and summer vacations.

  She crossed to the desk, picked up the telephone and dialed the number that was engraved on her memory for­ever.

  "Belle Terre."

  "Hello, Mrs. Graves, this is Schyler. I won't be home for a while. Don't hold dinner for me."

  The housekeeper appeared not to have any curiosity and nothing to say; the call was completed within fifteen sec­onds. Replacing the telephone receiver, Schyler gazed about her. The windows overlooking the railroad tracks needed washing. They were without adornment of any kind, even Venetian blinds. Cotton had always insisted on an unobstructed view. He wanted to know what was going on at any given time.

  Schyler ran her fingertip along the windowsill and picked up an inch of dust. She should arrange for someone to come in and clean. Returning to the desk, she stood behind the chair and laid her hands on the tall, tufted back.

  Cotton's chair.

  Years of use had made the brown leather glove-soft and pliable beneath her squeezing fingers. She closed her eyes. Hot, salty tears welled up behind her eyelids as she re­called the times she had sat in Cotton's lap in this chair, listening patiently while he explained the different types of wood and to which lumberyard or paper mill the timber would be shipped.

  He had been delighted with his attentive pupil. Tricia hated the landing. She called it a dirty, noisy ol' place and had grown sullen if she ever had to go near it. Macy hadn't cared about the business, even though it had originally be­longed to her family. Cotton had audaciously changed its name. No sooner had Mr. Laurent been buried than Cotton set himself up as sole owner and operator.

  Macy hadn't cared about much at all, not her family's business, not her husband, not even the two daughters she had adopted out of desperation when she learned that she was barren and could not give Cotton the offspring he de­sired.

  Macy had seen to it that her two daughters were better dressed than any other girls in the parish. They had been educated in an elite private school. Parties held in their honor were more lavish than any the old-timers could re­member. She had provided their material needs, but she had neglected their emotional ones. If it hadn't been for Cotton, Schyler would never have known parental love.

  But he no longer loved her.

  She opened her eyes and wiped the tears from them. Suddenly noticing the long shadow stretched across the un­tidy desk, her head snapped up. She gave a soft gasp that seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness. Then, recognizing the man indolently leaning against the doorjamb, she frowned.

  Chapter Eight

  "I wish to heaven you'd stop sneaking up on me. It's giving me the creeps."

  "What are you crying about?"

  "Cotton."

  Cash's body tensed. His brows formed a low shelf over his enigmatic eyes. "He died?"

  Schyler shook her head. "No. He regained conscious­ness. I spoke with him."

  "I don't understand."

  "You're not supposed to," she said shortly. "Stop med­dling in my business."

  "All right. The next time you get a dog bite, I'll let your arm rot off."

  Schyler pressed the heel of her hand against her temple, where a headache was off to a good start. "I'm sorry. I should have thanked you."

  "How is it?" He nodded toward her bandaged arm.

  "Okay I guess. It hasn't hurt at all."

  "Come here." She only stared at him. He arched one brow and repeated softly, "Come here."

  She hesitated a moment longer before stepping around the desk and approaching the open door, where he still had a shoulder propped against the frame. She stuck out her injured arm with about as much enthusiasm as she would thrust it into a furnace.

  Her aversion to having him touch her made him smile sardonically as he unwound the gauze bandage he had fash­ioned the night before. Schyler was amazed to see that the

  skin had almost completely closed over the wounds and that there was no sign of infection. He touched the scratches lightly with his fingertips. They were painless.

  "Leave the bandage on tonight." He rewrapped her arm. "Tomorrow morning, take it off and wash your arm care­fully. It should be okay after that." She looked up at him inquiringly. "It's the spleen of warthog that does the trick."

  She jerked her arm away. "You're left-handed."

  His grin widened. "You believe the legend, do you? That all traiteurs are left-handed." Without a smidgen of apol­ogy or hesitation, he moved aside the square nautical collar of her dress and brushed his fingers across the top of her breast, where he had located the
welt the night before. "How are the mosquito bites?"

  Schyler swatted his hand away. "Fine. Was Monique left-handed?"

  "Out. She was also a woman. That's where I break with tradition." His voice dropped seductively. "Because I am a man. And if you have any doubts as to that, Miss Schyler, I'd be more than glad to prove it to you."

  She looked up at him and said wryly, "That won't be necessary."

  "I didn't think so."

  His conceit was insufferable, Schyler thought as she watched his lips form a lazy, arrogant smile. What was she expected to do, unravel because big, bad Cash Boudreaux, the man most feared by fathers of nubile daughters, had turned his charm on for her? She was a little old to grow giddy and faint in the face of such blatant masculine strut­ting.

  Still, no one needed to sell her on Cash's masculinity. It was evident in the rugged bone structure of his face, the width of his shoulders, the salty scent that he emanated in the afternoon heat. A bead of sweat rolled from beneath the hair curving over his forehead. It slid down his temple and disappeared into his thick eyebrow.

  His walk, all his movements, were masculine. Schyler watched his hands as they went for the pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket and shook one out. He offered it to her, but she wordlessly declined. His lips closed around the filtered tip. He replaced the pack in his pocket and pulled out a matchbox. He struck the match on the dooijamb, then cupped his hands around the flame while he lit the ciga­rette.

  She remembered his hands on her midriff, pressing into the tender center of her stomach, the hard, dominant fingers lying against her ribs. He had imprisoned her against the wall of the gazebo without exercising any force. The only bruises her body bore this morning were a result of her struggles with the pit bull. It made her uneasy to know that Cash Boudreaux could be so overpowering without hurting her.

  As he drew on his cigarette, staring at her through the smoke that rose from it, she lowered her eyes. There was a knotted bandanna around his strong, tanned throat. His chest tapered into a narrow waist and lean hips. The soft, washed denim of his Levi's cupped his sex as intimately as a lover's hand.