Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  Schyler was still fuming over their encounter hours later as she lay in bed, trying to sleep. Cash Boudreaux was the most infuriating man. She wanted to kill him for all his crimes against her, chief of which was making her blood run hot every time she came near him.

  He had caused problems for her from their first personal encounter all those years ago. Her memory had kindly ob­scured that night he had brought her home from the pond. But tonight the memories had flashed like brilliant patches of light in the dark recesses of her brain.

  Still, that most significant point, that inexplicable some­thing that Cash had said to her father, eluded her. It was vitally important, though Cash obviously didn't want her to remember it. That was curious. What could it be, and why was it important even now?

  She was still searching for a plausible explanation when the phone on her nightstand rang hours later. After fum­bling for it in the darkness, she said, "Hello?"

  "Ms. Crandall?"

  "Yes."

  "This is Dr. Collins."

  She gripped the receiver hard.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  "Daddy?" she asked fearfully.

  "We need you at the hospital as soon as you can get here," Dr. Collins told her. "He's suffered another massive heart attack. We have no choice now but to operate. Even then . . . I just don't know."

  "I'm on my way."

  She allowed herself five seconds of numbing, immobi­lizing grief before swinging her feet to the floor. Bare­footed, she ran out into the hall. Ken was in his underwear, standing just outside the bedroom he shared with Tricia. "I picked up the extension in our room and heard the end of your conversation," he said. "We're coming, too."

  "I'd like that. Downstairs in five minutes."

  Even at that hour of the night, the hospital was well lit, though sepulchrally quiet. The trio in the elevator were silent as they rode up to the second floor, where they'd been frequent visitors for several weeks. The women looked pale without their makeup. The fluorescent lighting didn't flatter either. Ken's eyes were puffy and his jaw was shadowed with stubble.

  They erupted from the opening doors of the elevator like news hounds on the scent of a big story. Schyler out­distanced the other two and reached the nurses' station first.

  "Where's Dr. Collins?"

  "He's already scrubbing. He left this consent form for you to sign."

  Schyler, barely glancing over the necessary document, scribbled her name on the dotted line. "Has my father been taken to the operating room yet?"

  "No, but the orderlies are in his room now."

  "Can I see him?"

  "He's heavily sedated, Ms. Crandall."

  "I don't care. I've got to see him." She didn't add the qualifying words "once more." But that's what she feared it would be.

  The stark anxiety on her face appealed to the nurse's compassion. "Okay. Just don't detain them."

  "I won't." She turned to her sister and Ken. "Do you want to see him?"

  Tricia, vigorously rubbing her hands up and down her chilled arms, shook her head no. Ken looked from his wife to Schyler. "Why don't you go alone? Seeing him in pain like that the first time it happened wasn't pleasant for either of us."

  Schyler jogged down the corridor. The door to Cotton's room was open. Two orderlies were transferring him from his hospital bed to a gurney. His body looked as frail as a child's. He was strung with tubes and wires. It was a maca­bre sight. But that didn't even slow Schyler down. She rushed into the room. The orderlies looked at her curiously.

  "I'm his daughter."

  "We're taking him to the OR," one of them said.

  "I understand, but the nurse gave me permission to speak to him. Is he conscious?"

  "I don't think so. They gave him a pre-op shot."

  While they were adjusting the IVs and covering Cotton with a stiff white sheet, Schyler moved to the side of the gurney, standing far enough away not to hamper the order­lies, but close enough to take Cotton's hand. The back of it was bruised for having had needles in it for so long. It lay in hers listlessly.

  The palm of it, however, was beautifully familiar. She knew each callus personally. A thousand memories were associated with that hand. It had proudly patted her head for getting an A in math. It had soothed her after taking a fall off a frisky colt. It had wiped away her tears while he explained that Macy did love her, she just didn't know how to show it.

  She raised his hand to her cheek. "Why'd you stop lov­ing me, Daddy?" Schyler whispered the words so softly that no one could have heard them. But, as though in an­swer, Cotton's eyes opened and he looked directly at her. She gave a soft, joyful cry and smiled brilliantly through her tears. He wouldn't die without knowing how much she loved him.

  "Schyler?" Cotton rasped.

  "We've got to go now, miss," the orderly said, trying to edge her aside.

  "Yes, I know, but.. .What is it, Daddy? What are you trying to say?" He still loved her! He was trying to tell her so in case this was his last chance.

  "Why did you. . ."

  "Miss?"

  "Please!" she shouted in frustration. The orderly stepped back. Schyler bent over Cotton again. "What, Daddy? Why did I what?"

  "Why. . . did. . . did you destroy my grandchild?"

  * * *

  "Boudreaux!"

  Cash had been so lost in thought that he hadn't heard the pickup approaching his house, nor the footsteps on his porch. He'd been drinking coffee since three-thirty, waiting until dawn so he could report for work at the landing. Re­cently, at idle moments such as this, his thoughts turned to the woman he worked for.

  That's why he kept himself so busy.

  His name had boomed out of nowhere. Now someone was pounding on his door and repeating his name in a voice as finely tuned as a concrete mixer. Cursing his pre­dawn visitor, he left his hot cup of coffee on the table.

  Jigger Flynn was standing on the other side of the door Cash angrily pulled open. His eyelids contracted suspi­ciously, but he was careful to appear nonchalant.

  "Bon jour, Jigger. What brings you calling so early in the morning?"

  Without any kind of greeting, Jigger snarled, "I need something for my woman."

  "Which woman?"

  "That black bitch who lives with me, which one you think?"

  Cash's eyes turned cold. "Gayla?" Jigger grunted and bobbed his head. "What's the matter with her?"

  "She's bleeding."

  "Bleeding?" Cash repeated in alarm. "Bleeding where?"

  "Everywhere. Wake up, I do, with blood in my bed. She says she slipped a kid."

  "Jesus."

  Cash ran his hand down his face. This wasn't the first time Jigger had come to him asking for medicine for one of his prostitutes who had either botched a self-induced abor­tion or taken a beating from a customer who got off on bondage and violence. Jigger avoided doctors because such incidents warranted police reports. Most of the law en­forcement officers in the parish were in his back pocket, but Jigger didn't take unnecessary risks.

  "If she miscarried a fetus she needs a doctor," Cash told him. "You'd better get her to the hospital fast."

  "Your maman, she gave me the medicine before, don't cha know. Fixed them whores right up."

  "She knew more about it than I do."

  Jigger's eyes gleamed with malevolence. "Be a shame, Gayla should die in a pool of her own blood."

  That was his way of telling Cash that he had no intention of taking her to the hospital. He was smart enough not to come right out and say so, but his grin was amoral.

  Cash gnashed his teeth. "Wait here."

  A few minutes later, he was back with a paper sack. "There are two different bottles in here for her to take. I wrote out the directions." He extended Jigger the sack. Jigger took hold of it, but Cash didn't release it. Jigger looked at him inquisitively. "Leave her alone until she's completely well," Cash said tightly. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  "No fucking."

  "That's right. O
therwise you could kill her."

  Jigger leered at him. "You like Gayla? Tell you what, Boudreaux, I'll let you enjoy her for one night. In ex­change for the medicine."

  Cash's face turned dangerous. He abruptly released the sack. "Give me twenty bucks instead."

  Shrugging, Jigger fished a twenty-dollar bill out of his pants pocket and handed it to Cash. "Sure you wouldn't rather have Gayla?" Cash said nothing. Jigger cackled and turned to leave. He had taken only one step, however, when he turned around and asked, "Why do you work for that Schyler Cran-dall?"

  "The hours are good and she pays well."

  Jigger's eyes narrowed to slits. "Did that lady shoot my dogs like Gilbreath said?" Cash said nothing, but he tucked away that piece of information. "She'll pay for it," Jigger hissed threateningly.

  "Leave Schyler Crandall to me."

  Jigger threw back his head and laughed. He pointed a chipped, yellow index fingernail at Cash. "I forgot. You got an ax to grind with the Cran-dalls, too."

  "And I'll grind it my own way. You stay away from them."

  Jigger winked. "We're on the same side of the fence, Boudreaux, don'tcha know. The same side of the fence."

  He ambled down the porch steps to where his truck was parked. He gave another nasal laugh and waved to Cash before driving off.

  Cash finished dressing for work, unplugged the coffee­pot, and left his house only minutes after Jigger. He was surprised that Schyler wasn't at the landing when he drove up. He let himself into the office, wondering if he should mention Jigger's visit to her. He decided against it. The news about Gayla would only upset her and more than likely provoke her into doing something reckless. Besides, the less Schyler knew the better.

  When the loggers began to report for work and she still wasn't there, Cash dialed the phone number at Belle Terre and was told by the dour housekeeper that Ms. Crandall wasn't at home.

  "Where is she?" he asked.

  "She's at the hospital. Mr. Crandall had another heart attack and isn't expected to live."

  Absently Cash replaced the telephone. He dropped into Cotton's chair behind the desk and stared into near space. Eventually one of the loggers stamped in to get his orders for the day. He took one look at Cash's face and withdrew without saying a word. Something was wrong with the boss, and God help the man who disturbed him when he was in such a mood.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Her father's words echoed in her head.

  "Why did you destroy my grandchild?"

  As many times as she had mentally repeated them, they still made no sense. It was too critical a problem to puzzle through now because her mind could not sustain a thought for more than a few seconds. Her energy had to be used for one purpose, that of holding herself together until the sur­gery was over.

  She covered her face with her hands and drew in a deep breath. He couldn't die before she had another chance to talk to him. He couldn't. God couldn't be that cruel.

  "Coffee, Schyler?"

  She lowered her hands. Ken was bending over her. "No thanks." He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, then re­turned to the other vinyl sofa and sat down beside Tricia. He took his wife's hand and pressed it between his. Schyler watched, feeling a pang of envy. She needed that kind of oneness with someone right now—anyone; anyone who could share her fear and help get her through this.

  Tricia happened to catch Schyler's longing stare. She scooted closer to Ken and clung to his arm possessively. Schyler ignored the smug gesture but looked closely at her sister. Without her makeup, Tricia appeared older, harder. There were no cosmetics to alleviate the bitter lines around her mouth or to warm the cold calculation in her eyes.

  And then Schyler knew.

  In one explosive split second of clarity, she knew. Tricia was the culprit.

  "Did you. . ." Schyler's voice was as dry and rattly as dead corn stalks blowing in a hot August wind. She tried to work up enough saliva to swallow. "Tricia, did you, at any time, tell Daddy that I had had an abortion?"

  Tricia's cheeks, unenhanced by blushing powder, paled even whiter. Her lips went slack and separated slightly, making her look dim-witted. Her blue eyes blinked once, twice. In wordless trepidation, she stared across the wait­ing room at the woman who was her sister in name only.

  "You did. You did."

  The knowledge struck Schyler in the middle of her chest. She gasped with pain and sucked in a sharp breath. Her head fell back against her shoulders. She squeezed her eyes shut. Tears rolled down her chalky cheeks.

  "Ms. Crandall?"

  She raised her head and opened her eyes. Dr. Collins was standing there, looking down at her with concern. He was still wearing his green scrubs. The surgical mask had been untied and was lying flat on his chest like a bib. "The surgeon sent me out. He's closing now."

  "Is my father still alive?"

  The young doctor smiled. "Yes he is. He survived a quadruple bypass."

  Several knots inside her chest unraveled and she took her first comfortable breath in hours. "Will he be all right?"

  The doctor scratched his cheek indecisively. "If he re­covers, he'll definitely be better than he was. But it'll be touch and go for several days."

  "I understand. Thank you for being honest with me."

  "Would you like to talk to the surgeon?"

  "At his convenience. It's not really necessary, is it?"

  "No." He studied her a moment. "It's been a long night for you. I suggest you go home and get some. . ."

  His voice dwindled to nothingness. Schyler was stub­bornly shaking her head. "No. When Daddy wakes up I have to be here."

  "It might be—"

  "I have to be here," she repeated adamantly.

  The doctor could see that combating such resolve was a waste of time. "I'll keep you posted. He'll be in recovery for thirty-six hours or so. That's an ugly scene, but you can go in periodically if you want to."

  "I want to."

  "Okay. Then be outside the door every even hour at ten of."

  He nodded at the Howells who had remained curiously silent, gave Schyler one last look, and left the waiting room with his characteristic briskness.

  Schyler swallowed with difficulty. She didn't want to break down and weep now, though sobs pushed at the back of her throat until it ached. She willed her pounding heart to slow down. She dried her perspiring palms on the hand­kerchief that was already twisted and soggy with the sweat of anxiety. Her fingertips were white and cold. They felt bloodless.

  Making a valiant effort, she stood up. She took only three steps, halving the distance that separated her from her sister and brother-in-law. She looked Tricia straight in the eye. "Get out of my sight." Speaking in a precise, clipped, clear voice, she enunciated each word.

  Then she left the waiting room with her dignity and her rage intact.

  Schyler became the resident ghost on the recovery floor of the hospital. She refused to leave it. She prowled it endlessly, restlessly, unceasingly, anticipating each report on Cotton's condition, which remained aggravatingly un­changed.

  Dr. Collins had tried to prepare her, but nothing he said could have diluted the horror of the recovery room. It was a high-tech torture chamber. She watched from a distance as Cotton struggled against the breathing tube in his throat, which gave him a choking sensation when he regained con­sciousness. His arms had to be restrained to keep him from jerking free of the necessary needles and catheters and electrodes. She didn't know how any patient survived the recovery room. She didn't know how she did.

  The first day, she thought of little else except her father. She was so afraid that the machines monitoring his heart­beat would fall silent and he would die. Every hour he stayed alive was encouraging, the doctors told her. She clung to that hope. On the second day, she started believing it. To help pass the long hours of the second night, she went to the bank of pay telephones and called Mark. Upon hearing his kind and concerned voice, her restraint crum­bled and she burst into tears.

&nbs
p; "Is he gone, darling?"

  "No, no." She brought him up-to-date with wet, noisy, slurpy phrases.

  "I hope he recovers. I'm sure he will. The doctors are optimistic, aren't they?"

  "Yes. They've said as much anyway."

  "But what about you? You sound done in."

  "I am," she confessed. She didn't have to pretend with Mark. "I'm exhausted. But I want to be here until I'm sure he's out of danger."

  "What good will you be to him if you're on the verge of collapse?"

  "I must stay here with him."

  He knew better than to argue with her when she assumed that particular tone of voice. Tactfully, he switched sub­jects. "What about the business? Any progress being made there?"

  She filled him in on that, too. "Of course I haven't been to the landing since Daddy's surgery. I assume that Cash has everything under control."

  Mark offered her money again. Again she refused it. Finally he said, "I miss you, Schyler."

  "I miss you, too. I need to be held."

  "Come home and I'll hold you."

  She clamped her teeth over her lower lip and tried to keep from crying again. Very expensive tears, these. It was wasteful to cry long distance, but she was dismally home­sick for Mark. "I can't, Mark. Not yet. Probably not for quite a while. I need to be here for Daddy. One way or another."

  "He doesn't deserve this much loyalty from you."

  "Yes he does." He didn't know about Tricia's treachery and she didn't want to go into it over the telephone. "My place right now is at Belle Terre. I have to stay."

  They ended the conversation by him telling her a dirty joke. Mark was good at that, at coaxing a smile out of her when she was feeling her lowest. Before she met him, he had experienced his own disillusionment and pain. His suf­fering had spawned a droll sense of humor and a pragmatic way of looking at life and the rotten pranks it played on people. It was that unique ability of his that had drawn her to him in the first place and that had saved her on more than one occasion from debilitating despair.