Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  The man's lips quivered. "It hurts like hell, Cash. No foolin'." He gasped with pain.

  "I know it does. Hang in there."

  "How am I gonna feed my kids, with my leg all fucked up, Cash? Huh?"

  "Don't worry about it." He smiled and winked. "Worry about something important, like how you're going to keep the rest of these buzzards from flocking around Marybeth at the next dance. You might have to sit that one out."

  "Marybeth's pregnant again. Seven months gone. She can't work. How am I gonna feed my kids?"

  The man began to cry. Schyler stared down at him. His despair was tangible, real, basic. Disappointing love af­fairs, sad movies, disillusionments. Dead cats. Those were the things one cried over. She had never seen anyone cry because he might not be able to feed his children.

  My God, where had she been? This was life. People suffered. People actually went hungry. She had marched and picketed on behalf of the downtrodden and unfortu­nate, but this was the first time she'd ever experienced human misery firsthand. His tears touched something deep inside her.

  "Feeding your family will be the least of your prob­lems," Cash said softly. "I'll see to it that they don't go hungry. I swear that on my mother's grave." He raised his head suddenly. "Well, thank Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I hear an ambulance. Hear that, Glee? You're on your way to a nice, long vacation."

  "Cash?" The man gripped the front of Cash's shirt. "You won't forget your promise?"

  "I won't forget," he said, squeezing tighter the hand he held.

  Glee's anguished face relaxed a second before he passed out.

  Cash eased the man's head to the ground, then surged to his feet. "Get out of the way," he shouted, waving the loggers aside. He didn't mince words with the tardy para­medics. "You took your goddamn time."

  "We were eating breakfast."

  "What were you having? Pussy? Give this man some­thing for his pain, something to keep him knocked out."

  "We know what to do," one of them said defensively.

  "Then do it," Cash said through his teeth. 'Tank, Chip . . . where are you?" Two men sprang forward with the dis­cipline of young Nazi troopers. "Did you get the loader into place?"

  "Set to go, Cash."

  "All right, everybody knows what to do."

  Everybody but Schyler. She stood there, looking around her stupidly and helplessly, while the men scrambled in 360 different directions. Cash spun around, nearly knock­ing her down. "Move. You're in the way," he said harshly.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but knew that now wasn't the time to take issue with his high-handedness. With as much dignity as she could muster, she waded through the mud back toward the track that had transported her there from the landing. This scene clearly belonged to men. No amount of legislated equality between the sexes would change the fact that she was as glaringly out of place as one of the loggers would be at a quilting tee.

  She watched as Cash, sitting in the knuckle boom of the loader, maneuvered the crane himself and carefully lifted the log off Glee's leg with the enormous pinchers. Glee's shin was shattered. It was a mass of crushed bone and torn flesh, barely held together by his shredded trousers. He remained blessedly unconscious as the paramedics lifted him out of the mud and onto a stretcher.

  The others watched somberly as the stretcher was loaded into the ambulance. The cheerful chatter of birds seemed grossly inappropriate in the respectful silence. It lasted until the ambulance disappeared into the forest on its way back to town.

  Then Cash bellowed, "What's going on here? A frigging holiday? Get to work." Then, to soften the order, he added, "Cold beer on me if we make up half of what we missed yesterday." A roar' of approval went up. "Haul ass. Get that rig back on its feet. We'll need a new bolster on die tear. And keep the loads light. Everybody look alive."

  He watched to see that his orders were being carried out to his satisfaction, then consulted his wristwatch. He seemed impervious to everything except the tremendous task at hand.

  "I fired you yesterday. Apparently you've forgotten."

  His head snapped around. "What are you still doing here?"

  "I'm the boss. Did you hear what I said?"

  The once-over he subjected her to was purely sexual. "Qui, I heard you. And in answer to your question, I haven't forgotten anything that happened yesterday."

  She tried to peel away the layers of deception in his eyes and get to the truth, but there were no layers of deception masking them. They were clear, cool, incisive. Either he didn't know anything about two dead cats being obscenely placed on the veranda of Belle Terre, or fee felt no guilt over doing it.

  Neither was a comforting thought. If Cash hadn't done it, then the culprit was still a mystery. And if Cash wasn't ashamed of doing such a hideous thing, then he was psy­chotic. But it just didn't seem his style to sneak around like that, leaving symbolic messages. He usually issued his threats in a straightforward manner.

  "I fired you," she repeated. "Why did you report to work this morning?"

  "Because it's not that easy to get rid of me, Miss Schyler. You hired me to do a job and I'm going to do it. Not for you, and not for Cotton, but for me," he said, tapping his chest. "I've got more years of my life than I like to count invested in this company. It's not going to go bankrupt without a helluva fight from me."

  "And it doesn't matter what I say about it?"

  He smiled arrogantly. "Say whatever makes you happy. The bottom line is that you need me. We've both known that from the beginning."

  She glanced at the well-oiled team of loggers, who were attaching pulleys to the overturned trailer. "I guess I can't fire you after the way you handled this emergency. Thank you for what you did for that man."

  "His name is Glee."

  "I know that," she said in angry reaction to Ms subtle rebuke. "Glee Williams. I'll see that his family is compen­sated fully while he's in the hospital."

  "He'll probably lose his leg." It was a gauntlet Cash threw down to see how far she would go.

  "For as long as it's necessary, he'll draw full wages."

  Cash stared down at her. For some inexplicable reason she felt like she was on the witness stand pleading her innocence to an unforgiving judge. "What else can I do?" she shouted up at him.

  "We shouldn't have been cutting today." He hitched his head backward in the direction of the overturned rig. "I knew it was dangerous. The ground is too soft. If the logs shift a fraction of an inch while they're being loaded, the rig can go over because it's got no ground support. That's exactly what happened. My bad judgment cost me a good man. It cost Glee his leg.

  "But I didn't want you bitching at me about goofing off and letting valuable work days go fey. I didn't want you to call me worthless." He pulled on his yellow leather gloves with quick, angry motions. "Think about that every time you sign a paycheck made out to Glee Williams."

  He slipped down the screened visor on his hard hat and turned his back on her.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Jigger came home in a bad mood. He was also drunk. Sober, he was mean. There was no one meaner in the world compared to Jigger Flynn when he was drunk. At those times Gayla thought he must be the devil incarnate, the Antichrist she'd read about in the Book of Revelations.

  Sometimes she felt feisty enough to stand up to him and give him some sass, but never when he was drank. Then, she did nothing that might provoke him.

  Tonight was one of those nights. The screen door slammed closed behind him. He stumbled to the kitchen table and yanked out a chair. It barely cleared the table before he dropped into it.

  Silently Gayla filled a plate with food and set it in front of him. With an oath of disgust, he shoved the plate aside and demanded whiskey. She poured him a glass.

  "That bastard Boudreaux," he grumbled between deep swallows of straight whiskey. "Mighty smart, that Cajun."

  Gayla pieced together the almost unintelligible words and phrases until some sense emerged from them. Earlier that evening, Cash
Boudreaux had bought beer for all the loggers who worked for Crandall Logging. It was their re­ward for doing two days' work in one.

  "Big shot, he thinks he is." Jigger's bleary eyes found Gayla and squinted her into focus. "I tell you, he's headed for a fall, he is. He brags now, but wait. All his work goes up like that." He clapped his hands together loudly. His face turned darker and his eyes glittered as he unsteadily tipped the whiskey bottle toward his glass again. "And that Schyler Cran-doll. Bitch."

  Gayla ran her moist palms down her thighs, drying them on her cheap cotton dress. "What's Schyler ever done to you?"

  "Killed my dogs that bitch did." He swigged more whis­key. "I get her. Good, I get her."

  "What are you going to do to Schyler?"

  He looked up at her and cackled the evil laugh that sent chills down her spine. "You think 'cause your mammy work at Belle Terre the Cran-dalls have anything to do with you? Ha! That highfalutin bitch, she spits on black whores like you."

  Gayla's head dropped forward in shame. He was proba­bly right. It had been her daily prayer since she had seen Schyler toting the shotgun that her old friend hadn't recog­nized her before she ducked out of sight. Schyler was fine and good. She would never understand or forgive what Gayla had become.

  "What are you going to do to Schyler?" she repeated, keeping her head bowed. If she knew what Jigger's plans were ahead of time, she might be able to thwart them. She could warn Schyler anonymously, prevent her from being hurt. Gayla had lived with Jigger long enough to know that he kept his vows of vengeance. He wouldn't be afraid to take on Belle Terre and everybody in it, especially with Cotton laid up and that worthless Ken Howell in charge.

  "That's my business, don'tcha know," he growled. He stood, swaying so that he had to brace himself against the edge of the table to remain upright. "Your business is to get ready for that fancy gentleman that's coming to pick you up."

  Fearfully, Gayla backed against the wall. "I can't go with nobody, Jigger. You know that. I'm not healed up yet."

  He made a snarling sound. "That sorry Cajun gave me sorry medicine. I git him for that, too." He aimed a finger at Gayla. "You're goin' tonight. Earn your keep."

  "I can't!"

  He weaved forward and backhanded her across the breasts. He was gifted at inflicting wounds that wouldn't spoil the perfection of her face. "He's paid one hunerd dollars for you. You're going."

  Tears rolled down Gayla's cheeks. "I can't, Jigger. I'm still bleeding. Please don't make me go. Please."

  "I do bizness with this man. You're part of our deal."

  Her pitiful pleas had no effect on him. At the sound of tires crunching on the gravel road outside, he grabbed her hand and dragged her across the kitchen floor and through the screen door. She tried to wrest her hand free. Her heels dug into the rain-softened earth. She stumbled along be­hind his staggering tread toward the long car with the opaque tinted windows.

  The headlights almost blinded her. It was God, she knew, spotlighting her sin. She averted her head. Jigger pulled open the passenger door and shoved her inside. The air-conditioning had made the upholstery cool. It sur­rounded her in a clammy caress.

  "Is there a problem, Jigger?" asked the man behind the steering wheel. Gayla recognized the voice. She'd been loaned out to him before.

  "No problem," Jigger told him. "She likes you."

  "Good," the man said softly. "Because I like her, too."

  Gayla kept her head down. She didn't see the threaten­ing look Jigger gave her before he closed the door. The man put the car in motion, but they'd barely driven out of sight of the house before he braked and turned toward her. He ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek and felt the wetness of her tears.

  "I won't hurt you, Gayla."

  She knew he wouldn't. He wasn't one of the violent ones. He just liked to take dirty pictures. He would barely touch her.

  He wouldn't affect her emotionally at all. She had col­lapsed into herself, like a dying star, leaving a black void of such density that no light could escape or enter. She couldn't be touched. That's the only way she had survived. She didn't allow herself to feel.

  * * *

  "Joe Jr., he's a cagey son of a bitch," Cotton said from the pillows of his hospital bed. "Inherited old man Endicott's shrewdness. Arrogant as hell, too. A real smart-assed buck. He'll haggle you down to bottom dollar if you let him."

  Schyler smiled, glad to see that her father had reverted to his normal speech patterns. He was regaining strength each day. The stronger he got, the more profane his lan­guage became.

  That afternoon he'd been moved from the ICU to a regu­lar room. His prognosis was favorable, if guarded. He was now holding court like a king who had defied death and lived to rule again. Schyler liked to think that one cause for his vast improvement was that she had begun talking shop with him. Dr. Collins had agreed to the idea when she broached the subject. Cotton shouldn't be made to feel like an invalid, he had said.

  "Heart patients go through a period of depression that is almost as debilitating as their physical illness. By ail means, discuss business with him. Nothing catastrophic, you understand, but let him feel like a useful human being. Don't mollycoddle him."

  She had brought Cotton up-to-date on the progress Cran­dall Logging was making in his absence.

  "I'm sorry I saddled you with that balloon note, Schyler," he had said. "Jesus, I didn't realize how soon it was coming due."

  "You could hardly schedule a heart attack around a bank loan," she had said with a smile. "Don't worry. We'll make it."

  "How?"

  "I've got several irons in the fire."

  He didn't press her for details, so she was spared having to tell him that none of the irons she boasted having were large enough to cover the debt. Timber was leaving the landing daily on the train, but the accounts she had nego­tiated were peanuts compared to the sizable contract she desperately needed from Endicott.

  Cotton didn't seem to resent her management. On the contrary, he seemed pleased that she had seized control. She'd been careful not to mention Cash's name, unsure how Cotton would feel about him playing such a vital role in their business.

  That's just what his role was—vital. As difficult as it was for her to admit, Schyler didn't know how she would have managed without him. He worked circles around every other logger. She saw him several times each day at the landing, but they hadn't engaged in any lengthy con­versations since Glee's accident. Things seemed to go more smoothly when they stayed out of each other's way.

  Something Ken said drew her back into the present. "Maybe I should go to East Texas with Schyler tomorrow," he offered.

  Tricia and he had joined Schyler in Cotton's room, in a sort of celebration over his rapid progress. It was the first time the three of them had been in the same room since their argument. For Cotton's benefit, they pretended to be as staunchly devoted to each other as the three musketeers. "I've dealt with Joe Jr. before."

  "Which might be the reason we're in dutch with Endicott's," Cotton said crossly. "Let Schyler handle it herself."

  "She doesn't have any experience," Ken argued.

  Cotton looked at his daughter with affection and admira­tion. "Then she'll get some, won't she? Dealing with Joe Jr. will be a baptism of fire."

  "Well, if she blows this deal, don't blame me."

  "No one would think of it," Cotton said sharply.

  Schyler intervened to keep her father from getting upset. "I visited with Glee Williams before coming up here."

  "How is he?"

  She had told Cotton about the accident, but not until after she'd been told by the doctors that Glee's leg had been spared amputation. During a painstaking and lengthy operation, his fibula had been knit back together with the help of synthetic materials. He would always walk with a pronounced limp, and it was still undetermined what jobs he would be physically capable of handling, but at least he wouldn't be an amputee.

  It was gratifying to learn that Cotton h
ad taken an inter­est in the logger's welfare. He had known Glee personally. He'd even referred to the man's wife by name.

  "He looked much better than he did yesterday," Schyler told him. "He said he wasn't in pain, but they're keeping him heavily sedated. The flowers you ordered have been delivered. He and Marybeth sent their thanks. She doesn't look old enough to vote, much less to have three children and one on the way."

  "I don't think she is," Cotton said, laughing. "Glee knocked her up when they were in the eighth grade."

  Tricia roiled her eyes heavenward. Schyler smiled. De­spite Macy's admonitions, Cotton had never ameliorated the saltiness of his language in front of his daughters.

  "The insurance company will probably raise our pre­miums after what they had to shell out for that operation." Ken made a face. "Schyler brought in an orthopedic spe­cialist from New Orleans."

  "And he worked a miracle to save that leg," she said, annoyed that Ken had placed her in a position to defend her decision.

  He ignored her and spoke directly to Cotton. "Then she offered to pay Williams full wages. Indefinitely. That's going to cost us a fortune and we won't be getting anything in return."

  "I approve of her decisions," Cotton said in the ironclad voice that indicated the subject was closed to further dis­cussion.

  Sensing the mounting tension, Schyler again acted as a deflector. "Tricia is organizing the Junior League to gather used clothes for the Williams children and to give the fam­ily a pounding. I'm sure they could use the extra groceries, especially with another baby due in a few weeks."

  Cotton looked at his younger daughter appraisingly. "That's right decent of you, Tricia. They'll appreciate that."

  Flustered, Tricia replied, "I'm glad I could help in some small way."

  "Well, we'd better go and let you rest." Schyler gathered her handbag and leaned over to kiss Cotton's cheek. "Good night, Daddy. Sleep well."

  "Can't help but sleep like a frigging corpse after absorb­ing that goddamn suppository they shove up my ass every night." His querulousness didn't camouflage his fatigue. They left a few moments later.