Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  Tricia looked from one to the other. "What in the world are y'all talking about?" She sipped at her highball while Schyler summarized for them her conversation with Gil­breath.

  Ken spat the banker's name. "I might have known he'd get you all wound up. He's a persnickety old Scrooge. Only sees the bottom line. Probably a fag, too."

  "I don't care if he sleeps with sheep," Schyler declared angrily, "the facts are the same. We have a note coming due and no way that I can see to pay it."

  "I'll take care of it," he grumbled.

  "How, Ken, how?" Schyler went around the desk again and sat down. Shuffling through the accounts she had just gone over, she raised her hands in surrender and said, "We're broke."

  "Broke!" Tricia said on an incredulous laugh. "That's impossible."

  "Daddy used Belle Terre to cover a three-hundred-thou- sand-dollar loan. I can't imagine him doing it, but he did."

  "He was desperate," Ken said. "I thought it was foolish myself at the time, but he wouldn't listen to my advice. Not that he ever does."

  Schyler jumped to Cotton's defense. "I'm sure he did what he thought was necessary. He couldn't foresee that he would have a heart attack or that you'd close the doors on the business the minute he did."

  "You keep waving that at me like a red flag. Well, you finally succeeded in getting me angry, if that's what you're after."

  "It isn't. We can't afford the luxury of getting angry at each other. I want an explanation."

  Ken gnawed on the inside of his cheek. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks and hunched his shoulders defensively. "It's simple economics. We were losing more money than we were making. No contracts were coming in, but Cotton was paying the regulars the same wages he always had. He was paying the indepen­dents a premium price on timber, too."

  "He wouldn't cut back on them."

  "And that's probably why Crandall Logging is in the shape it's in," Ken said heatedly. "I thought it was better to quit while we were ahead instead of pouring good money after bad."

  Ken's explanation didn't quite gel, but Schyler was in no position to dispute it. Cotton had always been a shrewd businessman. It was unlike him to let things get so far beyond his control. Unless he was getting senile, which also seemed an absurd possibility. In any case, the problem was urgent. Solving it had to take precedence over finding its source.

  "How are we going to pay this note? We've got until the fifteenth of next month to come up with the cash."

  Tricia dropped into a chair and nonchalantly examined her fingernails. Ken moved to a window and nervously jangled the change in his pants pocket. "You could have brought me one of those," he said to his wife, nodding down at her drink.

  "When you start being an attentive husband, I'll be an attentive wife."

  If they launched into one of their verbal skirmishes, Schyler thought she would scream. She was spared. Ken turned to face her and said, "You and Tricia have money from your mother's legacy."

  "Forget it," Tricia said. "I'm not risking my inheritance to get Crandall Logging out of hock or to save Belle Terre. I'd sell it first."

  "Don't even say such a thing!" Schyler wanted to slap her. Tricia had never cared for the property the way Schyler did. Her nonchalance now pointed up just how uncaring she was.

  But Tricia was right in one respect. Schyler couldn't use her mother's legacy to pay off this note. If Cotton died, she would need that money to maintain Belle Terre in the fu­ture.

  "What about that guy in London?"

  Schyler looked at Ken. "Mark? What about him?"

  "He's rich, isn't he?"

  "I can't ask Mark for the money."

  "How come? You're sleeping with him, aren't you?"

  Ignoring the slur, Schyler shook her head adamantly. "Out of the question. I can't and won't ask Mark for the money."

  "Then what do you propose to do?"

  She resented his condescending tone. "I propose to re­open Crandall Logging and to earn the money to pay off the loan."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You heard me, Ken."

  "You can't do that."

  Tricia snickered. "That would be right down her alley, honey, going to that dirty old landing every day. Mama used to have to drag her away from there."

  "I forbid it," Ken shouted angrily.

  Only minutes ago, Schyler couldn't see a way out of this unexpected dilemma. Now the solution was brimming crystal clear in her mind. The decision was made; it felt right. She wanted to do this for her father. She needed to do it for her own peace of mind.

  "You can't forbid me to do anything, Ken," she said tightly. "Tomorrow I want the business records of the last several years brought to the office at the landing. Every­thing. Contracts, payroll accounts, tax returns, expense re­ceipts, everything."

  "Cotton will hear about this," Ken ground out.

  Schyler aimed an accusing finger at him. "You're damn right he will. I want to know why Crandall Logging went from a productive business to a nonrevenue-producing company on the brink of ruin in just six short years."

  "I guess you think it's my fault. That the company's decline started the day I came aboard."

  "Please, Ken, don't be childish," she said wearily. "I'm not blaming anybody."

  "Sounds like it to me," Tricia said in unusual defense of her husband.

  "It's the economy's fault," Ken said. "You don't under­stand the economy around here anymore, Schyler. Things have changed."

  "Then maybe we should change with them."

  "We're up against the big guys. Weyerhauser, Georgia Pacific, huge conglomerates like that."

  "There's still a place in the market for small operations like us. Don't try to tell me otherwise."

  Ken plowed his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Do you have any idea how complicated running a busi­ness like this is?"

  "I'm sure I'll find out."

  "You're going to make me look like a damn fool. While Cotton's indisposed, Crandall Logging is my responsibil­ity!" he shouted.

  "It was," Schyler replied coolly, coming to her feet. "If you wanted to wear the pants in the family, you should have put them on the day Daddy went to the hospital."

  She left the room. Ken, fuming, watched her go, then turned on his wife, who was still indolently curled up in the chair sipping her drink. She gave a disdainful shrug toward the entire situation and drained her glass.

  Chapter Seventeen

  "Schyler?"

  "Hmmm?"

  "What are you doing out here?"

  "Thinking."

  Hesitantly, Ken sat down beside her in the porch swing. It was after eleven o'clock. Tricia was indoors watching Johnny Carson.

  "I guess I owe you an apology," Ken said, staring beyond the veranda at the dark lawn.

  Schyler's breasts rose and fell with a deep breath. "I don't want your apology, Ken. I want your help." She turned her head and looked at him. "I need to do this. Don't fight me. Help me."

  He reached for her hand and covered it with his. "I will. You know I will. I blew my top, that's all. It's not every day a woman just moves in and takes over, you know."

  "Is that what you think I'm doing? I don't intend to usurp your authority."

  "That's how it'll look to folks."

  "I'll make sure it doesn't."

  He traced the delicate bones in the back of her hand with his fingertip. "Why do you feel like you have to do this?"

  "I don't really have a choice, do I? That note has to be paid or we'll lose Belle Terre. You were right about Gil­breath. He is an asshole and would show no mercy if it came down to foreclosing."

  "I'm sure we could figure out another way to come up with the cash if we put our minds to it."

  "Probably. But time is so short, I can't go exploring. I don't want to borrow money to cancel this loan. That would only dig us in deeper and postpone the inevitable. And I don't want to liquidate bits and pieces of Belle Terre. The very thought of parting with one saucer of the china
collection, or selling one acre of land makes me shudder. Besides what that would mean to us personally, I have to think about the sharecroppers. I can't sell their homes out from under them."

  "You can't burden yourself with everybody's problems."

  She smiled at him to relax the mood. "I need something to do. I'm going stir crazy around here between visits to the hospital."

  He pressed her hand affectionately. "I know you're ac­customed to staying busy, but I'm afraid you're biting off more than you can chew."

  "Then if I fall on my face, or make a bigger mess of things, you'll have the supreme satisfaction of saying, 'I told you so."'

  "This is no joking matter, Schyler."

  "I know," she said softly, ducking her head.

  "I don't think Cotton will find it funny either."

  "I'm sure he won't."

  Cotton. He was her main motivation. He loved Belle Terre more than he loved anything. He had come to it an outsider and made it his. If Schyler was successful in sav­ing it, maybe his love and affection for her would be re­stored. He might forgive her for whatever transgression she had unwittingly committed. Their relationship would revert to the loving one it had been before she left for London. As soon as possible, she wanted to present him with the can­celed note and watch the love and gratitude well in his eyes. She didn't want that for her sake, but for his.

  "You're an exciting woman, Schyler." Her head snapped around at Ken's soft proclamation. It so closely echoed what Cash had said to her only a few nights before. Unlike Cash, however, Ken was smiling gently. "You're a pain in the ass sometimes, but exciting."

  "Thank you. I think."

  He inched closer, until his thigh was pressing against hers on the bench. The swing rocked slowly. "What I mean is, you're hardheaded. Gutsy. That determination is aggra­vating as hell. But it's the thing that makes you so damn appealing, too." He reached out and stroked her cheek with a feather-light touch. "Remember all those hours we spent picketing this or that? Lambasting or advocating one cause or another."

  "We were a pair of crusaders, weren't we?"

  He shook his head in denial. "You were the crusader. I only tagged along so I could be with you."

  "That's not true. You were every bit as strong in your convictions as I was. You just don't remember."

  "Maybe," he conceded doubtfully.

  Honestly, she doubted it, too. But she didn't want to. She wanted to believe that he was uncompromising, that his integrity had been as steadfast as the Rock of Gibraltar. "I've really stuck my neck out this time, Ken. I need your strength and support."

  He lightly closed his fingers around her neck. "You make me feel strong." His eyes came to rest on hers. "I made a bad choice. I married the wrong woman, Schyler."

  "Don't, Ken."

  "Listen to me." Schyler heard the anxiety in his voice, felt it in his touch. He leaned closer. "I regret that indiscre­tion with Tricia every day of my life. She's not you. She's petty and shallow. Superficial."

  "Stop there, Ken."

  "No. I want you to hear this. She doesn't even come close to being you. She's nice to look at, she's okay in bed, but she's selfish. She doesn't have your spirit and fire, your zest for living and loving."

  Schyler thrilled to the words, but squeezed her eyes shut as though to block them out. "Don't say anything more. Please. I can't stay here if you—"

  "Jesus, don't leave. I need you so much."

  Closing the short distance between them, he kissed her with passion and desperation. Her initial reaction was to stiffen woodenly, but gradually she relaxed. Her mouth ac­cepted his probing tongue. His hand slid from her neck to her breast. He kneaded it through her clothes. He lifted his lips from hers and, whispering her name endearingly, cov­ered her face with quick, light kisses. She submitted until he tried to reclaim her lips. Then she pushed him away and left the swing.

  Encircling the corner column with her arms, she rested her cheek against the cool, fluted wood. "We might regret the way things turned out between us, Ken, but there's no going back. Don't touch me like that ever again."

  She heard the chains of the swing squeak as he left it. He moved up behind her and placed his hands on her waist, murmuring her name in her hair. She spun around to face him. "Don't! I mean it."

  The light coming through the windows was sufficient for him to see the resolve on her face and in her eyes, which held his without flinching. Disappointment, then anger, caused his lips to shrink into a tight, narrow line. He stormed across the veranda and down the steps. Getting into his car, he gunned it to life and sped off. Schyler watched until the red brake lights disappeared at the bend in the lane.

  She didn't realize how exhausted she was until she tried to move away from the column. She had to push herself away from its support. Sluggishly she went inside and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Once ready for bed, she settled against the pillows and pulled the telephone onto her lap. She would beat Mark's alarm clock by an hour or so, but that couldn't be helped. She needed to talk to him now.

  "Hi, it's me," she said when the transatlantic call had gone through to the flat she shared with Mark Houghton.

  "Schyler? God, what time is it?"

  "Here or there?" She laughed, envisioning his blond hair sticking up all around his head and his clumsy, sleepy groping for the bedside clock.

  "Just a sec. Let me light a cigarette."

  "You promised you were going to quit while I was away."

  "I lied." In under a minute he was back. "You don't have bad news I hope."

  "About Daddy, no. He's stable."

  "That's wonderful."

  "But I won't be coming home anytime soon."

  "That's not so wonderful."

  "He's got to have bypass surgery." She explained Cot­ton's prognosis. "I can't leave until he's completely out of danger."

  "I understand, but I miss you. At home and in the gal­lery. Some of our customers won't deal with anybody but you. If I don't produce you soon, I'm afraid they'll lock me in the Tower."

  She had first met Mark when he hired her to work as his assistant in his antique gallery. He'd not only been her em­ployer, but also her teacher. She had been an astute pupil with a natural eye and excellent taste. Before long, she knew as much or more about their inventory as he. That's why his flattery was particularly gratifying, if not entirely truthful.

  "I know several high-ticket customers who trample over me to get to you." Toying with the coiled telephone cord, she collected her thoughts. "I'll be overseeing the family business until Cotton gets better." She threw out that piece of information like a baited fishing line.

  He whistled. "Quite an undertaking. What about Ken?"

  Mark knew the entire story, everything. "He resented my interference and objected to the idea at first, but I think he'll come around once he gets used to it."

  "You can handle him and the work load."

  "Can I?"

  "I don't doubt it for a minute."

  "Don't be so hasty. There's more. A bank loan is coming due and the coffers are empty."

  There was a significant pause. Then, "How much do you need?"

  "I wasn't asking."

  "But I'm offering."

  "No, Mark."

  "Schyler, you know that anything I have is yours. Don't be proud. How much? I'll have my attorney draft a check in the morning."

  "No, Mark."

  "Please let me help you."

  "No. I need to do this on my own."

  I need to earn the right to live at Belle Terre is what she meant. She hadn't realized it until that very second.

  Belle Terre was hers by chance. If another child had been bom hours ahead of her, a child who filled the criteria just as well as she, Macy and Cotton Crandall would have been given that baby instead of her. When Cotton died, she and Tricia would inherit Belle Terre. Tricia would consider it her due.

  But not Schyler. No bloodlines linked her to the house and land. She would have to earn it. Pres
sed, she couldn't have explained to anyone, not even to herself, why she felt working for it was necessary. It was simply a compulsion she had no choice but to act upon.

  "Can you do without me for a while longer, Mark?"

  He sighed with forebearance. "What choice do you leave me?"

  "None, I'm afraid."

  "So there's nothing more to discuss."

  "I need a hug," Schyler said in a frightened, little girl's voice. "Mark, what the hell do I know about managing a logging company?"

  He laughed. "About as much as you knew about an­tiques before you came to work for me. You're a fast learner."

  "In the case of the antiques, I had an excellent teacher."

  His voice grew husky with remembrance of good times shared. "I love you, babe."

  "I love you, too."

  She extended the conversation as long as it was econom­ically feasible, telling him about Jigger Flynn and the pit bulls, which he found difficult to believe. "You mean this young woman, Gayla, is virtually enslaved? I thought the South was decadent only in Tennessee Williams plays and William Faulkner novels."

  "Don't judge us all by Jigger Flynn."

  He expressed concern for her safety. That's when she mentioned Cash. "I've known him forever. I mean, I've known about him forever. He's somebody who has always been lurking in the background."

  "Are you sure you can trust him? He sounds almost as dangerous as this Flynn character."

  She plucked at the embroidery on the hem of the sheet. "I guess he's trustworthy, in his own fashion."

  Trustworthy? Perhaps. He was certainly dangerous. Dangerous to be alone with if you were a woman emotion­ally overwrought and temporarily unsure of yourself, when you deliberately compared his kiss to the former lover's and discovered that the former lover's took a distant second place.

  Out of sheer curiosity, she had let her lips respond to Ken's kiss to see what would happen. And nothing did. But every time she even recalled Cash's kiss, her heart started beating fast, her nipples tightened, and her insides quivered.

  She thought about telling Mark. He was adult about these things. He wasn't judgmental. He would understand. Nevertheless, she changed her mind. She couldn't put into words exactly how she felt about Cash's kiss.