by Sandra Brown
"You okay?" His eyes left the road for a split second, only long enough for him to glance down at his passenger.
"I'm unwell."
"Unwell? What the hell does that mean?"
Schyler raised her head and glared at him. "It means I'm about to puke."
The truck came to another screeching halt. Cash reached across her and shoved open the door. Schyler leaped from the cab and retched into the dusty bushes that lined the edge of the road.
Hands propped on her knees, she remained bent at a forty-five-degree angle while the spasms gripped her until she was entirely empty. Her ears were on fire. Her skin broke out in a clammy sweat. She was trembling all over. She waited for the terror to subside. It didn't, but eventually it waned. Finally, she opened her eyes. A bottle of whiskey came into focus.
She accepted the bottle and lifted it to her chalky lips. She filled her mouth with the fiery liquor, swished it around, then spat it out. Or tried to. Most of it dribbled down her chin.
"Hell." Cash removed the bandanna that was knotted around his neck and passed it to her. She blotted her chin with it, then dabbed her eyes. They were leaking tears, though she wasn't actually crying. "You can't spit worth a damn. But you can damn sure shoot. There were four holes wider than washtubs in the side of that kennel. Hide and guts were splattered—"
"Please, shut up," she begged weakly. Her stomach heaved again.
"Are you going to vomit again?" She shook her head no. "If you are, tell me so I can pull over. I don't want you doing it in my truck."
She looked at the fresh bullet hole in the door of his pickup, then glanced up at him disparagingly. "Take me back."
"To Belle Terre?"
"To Flynn's place."
He stared at her with patent disbelief. "Have you got shit for brains, lady?"
"Take me back, Cash."
"Like hell. I'm getting tired of rescuing you."
"I didn't ask you to!"
"You'd be dead by now if I hadn't," he shouted back.
"I've got to go back. I've got to offer to pay for—"
"Forget it." His voice sliced the humid air as precisely as his hands did when he made the negative chopping motion. "You don't want Jigger to ever find out who did that to his dogs."
"But I can't just—"
He took her by the shoulders. "Look, why do you think I went in there with the headlights off? I didn't want to spotlight you. I hope to God he didn't recognize my truck."
"I heard him say he was going to call the sheriff. If the sheriff is there, I can explain. Surely—"
Cash shook her hard, and she fell abruptly silent. "Schyler, you don't realize the kind of man you're dealing with. He doesn't settle out of court. He goes for the jugular just like his dogs. I advised you to leave it alone, but now it's done. Stay away from him and don't admit doing this to a soul."
"I've got to go back," she repeated tearfully.
"Shit," he cursed viciously. "Haven't you heard anything I just said?"
"I saw Gayla. Through the window."
"Gayla Frances?"
"Yes, Veda's daughter. You know her? She was inside Flynn's house."
"That's right." Cash released her and stepped back. Clinging to the open door for support, Schyler looked at him incomprehensively. "Gayla's been living with Jigger the last few years."
The earth slipped off its axis. The dark trees spun around her. "Gayla? With Jigger Flynn? That's impossible."
"Get in."
Without a shred of compassion, he pushed her into the cab of the truck and slammed the door. He came around and slid beneath the wheel. He had left the motor running, so within seconds they were underway again. He still didn't turn on the headlights. They drove along roads so narrow that sometimes the tree branches slapped against the pickup and interlaced to form a tunnel around them. Schyler didn't suggest that he turn the headlights on; he seemed to know exactly what he was doing. It was a relief to let someone else handle the decisions for a while.
Exhausted, she rested her head against the open window and let the breeze cool her face. "Tell me about Gayla. How did she come to live with that reprobate?"
"When we get home. My home."
"I'd rather not."
"Yeah, well I'd rather not have been staking out Flynn's place tonight, waiting for you to pull some damn fool stunt like you did."
"You were—"
"Parked just around the curve in the road."
"You were that sure I'd do it?"
"I had a strong suspicion you'd try something."
"Even after you had warned me not to?"
He gave her a wry look. "Because I had warned you not to."
After a moment she said, "I guess I owe you another thank you."
"Oui. I guess you do."
Chapter Thirteen
He stopped the car. The emergency brake pedal made a grinding noise when he pushed it toward the floorboard. He turned to face her. For a long, tense moment they stared at each other.
"What'll you give me for saving your life again?" he asked softly. "You're running up quite a bill."
Schyler stared him down stonily, though her insides felt as light and airy as meringue. Her mouth was dry and it wasn't because of her recent nausea.
After several seconds, his lips curved into his characteristically cynical smile. "Relax. I won't collect tonight."
"How kind."
"It's not that. We haven't got that much time." He pushed open his door. "We walk from here, Miss Schyler."
He had deliberately avoided the roads leading back to Belle Terre, so they had approached his house from the far side. Taking her hand, he led her down the overgrown path toward the bayou and the small house that sat on its banks, nestled among the trees.
It had been built of cypress and was probably as old as the plantation house. Like Red Broussard's cafe, the house was set off the ground on enormous cypress stumps. The metal roof extended over a recessed porch lined with posts, which helped support it. The batten shutters had been left open and revealed screened windows. An exterior staircase, located at one end of the porch, led to a second story.
Cash guided her up the wooden steps, across the porch, and through a door into the central room. At one end there was a fireplace and small kitchen. The room served as both living room and eating area. It was neater than Schyler had expected it to be, but it definitely bore the stamp of Cash's heritage.
She had toured reconstructed Cajun houses, which were a staple tourist attraction in that part of Louisiana. The architecture of this house was typical, even to the galerie, or screened porch, that ran the length of the central room at the back of the house. Through a narrow connecting door, she could see into a bathroom, obviously a modem addition to the original floor plan.
On the galerie, there was an iron double bed, a bureau, and a rickety table with a small, portable TV and a deck of cards on it. A bookcase was stocked with best-selling paperback novels and recent-issue magazines. In addition to his tidiness, his reading matter, too, surprised her. She gathered that the galerie was where Cash spent most of his time when he was at home. It overlooked the bayou.
"What's upstairs?" she asked.
"My mother's bedroom."
Some of the furniture was obviously handmade, but by master craftsmen. There were touches of modernity, like the TV, the microwave oven, and the fan with cane blades that was suspended from a beam in the ceiling of the main room. He reached for the string and gave it a yank. The fan began circulating the still air.
"Drink?" He crossed to the cabinet in the kitchen, parted the calico curtain that was gathered on a rod, and took down a bottle of whiskey.
"Please. Add some water."
"Ice?"
She shook her head no. He came back, bringing the bottle with him, and handed her the drink. "Sit down." He indicated a chair that was upholstered in a regular, all- American fabric, a chair that could have been purchased in any furniture store in the nation. It seemed abs
urdly out of place in this interesting house beside the bayou, but Schyler sank into it, grateful for the familiarity. Nothing so far this evening had seemed normal. Her teeth clicked against the glass as she took a sip of her drink. "Thank you."
He plopped into the matching chair facing hers and took a swallow of his own drink, having placed the bottle on the low table between them. He propped his booted feet there, too, stacking one ankle on top of the other.
"Where did you learn to shoot?"
"Cotton taught me."
He had been about to raise his glass to his mouth for another drink. He paused momentarily, then drank before he said, "He did a good job of it."
"I'm not proud of what I did tonight."
"Your daddy would be."
"Probably," she admitted grudgingly. Studiously, she ran her finger around the rim of her glass. "We had a disagreement over it, my shooting," she told Cash with a wistful smile. "He wanted me to go hunting with him every fall, but I couldn't bring myself to shoot at anything except inanimate targets. He was disappointed in me." She took another swift swallow, then set her empty glass on the low table beside Cash's feet and stood up.
"Another drink?"
"No thanks." She made a slow, exploratory circle around her chair, trailing her finger over the nubby fabric. "Tonight was different. I had to do it. But I don't want to be complimented on my marksmanship."
Restlessly she prowled the room, making her way toward the window over the kitchen sink. In the sill an herb garden was growing. Apparently it was carefully tended. Inquiringly she glanced at him over her shoulder. He shrugged and poured himself another straight whiskey. "My mother always had things growing in that window."
"You use the herbs to make your potions?"
She asked the question teasingly, but his answer was serious. "Some of them."
Next to the outdated refrigerator, which hummed noisily, there was a corkboard hanging on the wall. Several old pictures had been thumbtacked there. Schyler leaned forward to get a better look at them. There was one of a woman and a child, a young boy with unruly, wavy hair and mature, serious eyes.
"You and your mother?"
"Oui."
The woman's hair was black and curly around her triangular face that tapered from a wide forehead to her impishly pointed chin. Her long, exotic eyes made her look as though she was privy to a thousand secrets. Her mysterious smile said she was sharing none of them. Her lips were heart-shaped, full and voluptuous, enticing and sexy.
Schyler could remember Monique, but never as being this young. And she'd only seen her from a distance. She was captivated by the photograph. "Your mother was very beautiful."
"Thanks."
"How old were you here?"
"Ten maybe. I don't remember."
"What was the occasion?"
"I don't remember that either."
Schyler looked at the other pictures. Several were snapshots of marines in battle fatigues, dogtags hanging from chains around their necks, grinning, acting silly. One had assumed a batter's stance and was holding his rifle like a baseball bat. Another had his middle finger raised to the camera. She recognized Cash in some of the pictures.
"Vietnam?"
"Oui."
"You all seem to be enjoying yourselves."
He made a scoffing sound. "Yeah, we had a helluva good time over there."
"I didn't mean to be facetious."
"The guy with the mustache got it in the gut the day after the picture was taken. The medics didn't even bother to fix him up, just tried to pile all the parts back into the carcass before the chopper got there to cart it out." From across the room, he pointed at one of the other pictures. "I'm not sure what happened to the guy wearing the funny hat. We were out on patrol. When we heard his screams, the rest of us got the hell out of there."
Stunned by his blasé attitude, she asked, "How can you talk about deceased friends like that?"
"I don't have any friends."
She recoiled as though he had socked her. "Why do you do that?"
"What?"
"Retaliate. Repay concern with cruelty."
"Habit, I guess."
"Take me home."
"You don't like it here?" He spread his arms to encompass the modest room.
"I don't like you."
"Most people in your class don't."
"I'm not in a class. I'm me. And the reason people don't like you is because you're such a snide, sarcastic son of a bitch. Where's your phone? If you won't drive me to Belle Terre, I'll call someone to pick me up."
"I don't have a phone."
"You don't have a telephone?"
He smirked at the incredulity underlying her question.
"That way I don't have to talk to somebody I don't want to."
"How do you survive without a telephone?"
"When I need one, I go to the office at the landing and use that one."
"That door is always kept locked."
"There are ways around that."
Schyler was aghast. "You pick the lock? You break in and mooch off us?" His unrepentant grin was as good as a signed confession. "Not only are you unlikable, you're a thief."
"So far no one has seemed to mind."
"Does anyone know?"
"Cotton knows."
Schyler was surprised. "Cotton lets you bleed utilities off Belle Terre? In exchange for what?"
"That's between him and me." Abruptly he placed his glass on the table and sat forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "You aren't planning to do anything crazy about Gayla Frances, are you?"
"At the very least I'm going to talk to her."
"Don't. She won't welcome your interference."
"I damn well will interfere. I want to hear from her own lips that she chooses to live with that man. Until then I won't believe it. I can't understand why Veda allows it."
He gave her a strange look. "Veda's dead."
The breath deserted Schyler's body. Her knees unhinged and she dropped into the chair again. She stared at him blankly. "You must be mistaken."
"No."
"Veda's dead?" He nodded. She lowered her gaze and stared into near space, trying to imagine a world without Veda in it. Solid, dependable, loving Veda, who had nursed her through colic and scraped knees and affairs of the heart that had gone awry. "When?"
"Several years ago. Not long after you left. Didn't your sister tell you?"
A cold numbness, like death, stole over her. She shook her head. "No, she didn't. She told me she had had to let Veda go."
He muttered a foul word. "She let her go, all right. That was the beginning of the end. Veda took sick soon after that. Personally I think it was because that bitch you call a sister booted her off Belle Terre."
He flopped back against the cushions of his chair. "Veda was too old to get another job. Then she got too sick to work. Gayla had to leave college and come home to take care of her. Jobs were scarce. Gayla took what she could find. She got hired to serve drinks in a honky-tonk. That's where she caught Jigger's eye. He liked what he saw and took her under his wing. He coached her in a more profitable occupation."
Schyler stared with disbelief. "You're lying."
"Why would I? Ask anybody. It's the truth. Gayla turned tricks in the cheapest dive in town."
"She would never do that."
"She did, I tell you."
Schyler vehemently denied the possibility. "But she's so pretty, so intelligent and sweet."
"I guess that's why she became such a favorite." Schyler clamped her teeth over her lip and tried to keep the tears out of her eyes. "Among Jigger's girls, Gayla shone like a new penny. That's why he took her for his own. Now he only occasionally loans her out and then at a premium price." Schyler's head dropped into her waiting hand.
Without mercy, Cash went on. "Veda died, mostly of shame and grief. Tricia Howell had spread it around that she was old and incompetent and had almost burned Belle Terre to the ground by negligentl
y leaving an iron on. Then there was Gayla. Veda couldn't stand what her daughter had become."
It wasn't possible. Schyler had known Gayla since she was born to Veda, a late-in-life child. Together they'd cried when Mr. Frances was killed in an explosion at the oil refinery where he worked. That's when Cotton had invited Veda to move into the quarters at Belle Terre. Schyler had watched Gayla blossom into a lovely teenager. She had just seen her off to college when Schyler left for England.
"What about Jimmy Don?" she asked.
Jimmy Don Davison had been Gayla's sweetheart since kindergarten. He'd become the star running back on Heaven's high school football team. He had been known as the Heathen of Heaven on the gridiron. He was such an outstanding athlete that a coach from LSU had drafted him and given him a full, four-year scholarship. He was a handsome, intelligent young man who was popular with black and white students alike. But it had always been understood that he belonged to Gayla Frances and vice versa.
"He's doing time."
"Time? You mean in prison?" Schyler wheezed. "For what?"
"He was still at school while all this was going on. When he heard that Gayla had moved in with Jigger, he got drunk, went berserk, and busted up a bar and just about everybody in it. Nearly killed one guy for boasting that he'd been with Gayla and telling all who would listen what a juicy piece she was. Jimmy Don pleaded guilty to all the charges and is serving his sentence. Three years, I think."
Schyler covered her face with her hands. It was too much to assimilate at one time. Veda. Gayla. Jimmy Don. Their lives had been ruined. And, although indirectly, Tricia was responsible. Schyler felt guilty by association.
She raised her head and looked at the man slouching in the chair opposite her. He seemed to take perverse pleasure in tormenting her. "You relished telling me all that, didn't you?"
He conceded with a nod. "Just so you'll know the caliber of folks you're living with in that big, fancy house. Your sister is a spiteful bitch. Her dick-less husband is a joke. Cotton. . . hell, I don't know what's wrong with him. He stood by and let Tricia do with people's lives what she damn well pleased."
