Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  "Another drink, Tricia?"

  "No thank you, darlin'. Mrs. Graves should be calling us in to supper any minute now."

  Tricia was fanning herself with the insubstantial after­noon edition of The Heaven Trumpet. There had been a full accounting of the generous pounding the Junior League had sponsored for the Glee Williams family. Tricia was feeling smug and piqued—smug because she was given credit for the astounding outpouring of generosity, piqued because Schyler had been the one who had actually organ­ized the benevolent gesture and had done most of the leg- work involved in collecting the food, staples, and used clothing.

  "It's really getting tiresome," she said petulantly, "hav­ing to hold supper for Schyler every night. She's always late."

  "She didn't know for sure when she'd be getting back from Endicott's." Ken sucked on a bourbon-flavored ice cube he'd shaken from the bottom of his glass. "It's a long drive."

  "You'd think she'd at least call."

  "Relax. Here she comes now." Ken set his empty glass on a wicker table and stepped off the veranda onto the steps. "Driving like a bat outta hell, too. That's not like her."

  "Maybe she finally got the message about being perpetu­ally late." Languidly Tricia laid down the newspaper and left her chair to go inside.

  "What the hell?" Ken asked rhetorically.

  Cash pulled the car to a jarring halt just a few feet from the steps. He opened his door, rolled out, and wrenched open the rear door. Bending at the waist, he reached inside and lifted Gayla out.

  "What the hell is going on here?" Ken blocked Cash's path as he set his foot on the first step leading up to the veranda. "Schyler, I'm waiting for you to tell me—"

  "Move out of the way, Ken. Tricia, are any of the guest rooms made up?" Both Howells were staring at Cash and Gayla as though they were aliens who had hatched in the bayou. "Well, answer me," Schyler demanded. "Are any of the guest rooms made up?"

  Tricia's eyes found her sister's. "What's the matter with that girl?"

  "She's been beaten to within an inch of her life. Which bedroom should I put her in?"

  "You don't mean to bring her inside the house, do you?"

  Schyler emitted a breath of disbelief and disgust. She looked toward Ken for support. He was glaring at Cash where they stood eye to eye on the steps, Ken one up from Cash and directly in his way.

  "What is the matter with you two?" Schyler exclaimed. "Don't you recognize Gayla?"

  "I know who she is," Tricia snapped.

  "She's seriously hurt."

  "Then I suggest a hospital."

  "She's coming inside."

  Schyler went around Ken and indicated to Cash that he should do the same. She was glad that he was holding Gayla in his arms; otherwise he would have used physical force to move Ken out of his path. From the murderous look in his eyes, he would have enjoyed that immensely.

  Schyler crossed the veranda and reached for the handle on the screen door. Tricia stepped in front of her and flat­tened herself against the door to hold it shut. "Mama would turn over in her grave if she knew you were bringing them inside Belle Terre."

  "Gayla's been inside. Many times. We used to play with her, remember? Her mother ironed your clothes, washed your dishes, cooked the food you ate. And Veda was blacker than Gayla."

  "This has got nothing to do with race."

  "Then what?"

  "You force me to be unkind, Schyler. She's Jigger Flynn's whore," Tricia shouted.

  Schyler went hot with fury. "And whose fault is that?"

  Tricia faltered but recovered quickly. "I suppose you're going to suggest it's mine."

  "Well isn't it?"

  "You blame me for everything that goes wrong around here!"

  "I can't argue with you about anything now, Tricia," Schyler said, having lost patience with Tricia's childish tantrum. "This is a house. It isn't the holy of holies. Nei­ther Gayla nor Cash can or will defile it. Mama will never know who comes inside. Even is she's watching with dis­approval from on high, there's not a damn thing she can do about it. Now get out of my way."

  Schyler pushed her sister aside and jerked open the door.

  "You know what Cotton thinks of him," Ken shouted behind her.

  She turned and thought about that for a moment. Then she said, "There's nothing Cotton can do about it now ei­ther." Schyler looked at Cash and inclined her head toward the spacious foyer beyond the door. For the first time in his life, Cash Boudreaux stepped over the threshold of Belle Terre.

  Mrs. Graves was standing in the foyer, looking like the last formidable guard at the gates of heaven. "Are any of the guest rooms made up?" Schyler asked her.

  "Not for the likes of her." She crossed her arms over her shriveled breasts as though visibly withdrawing any re­sponsibility for what was about to take place.

  "Then she can use my room." Schyler said calmly. "Make up a guest room for me." She headed for the stairs.

  "By the way, Mrs. Graves, that will be your last official duty at Belle Terre. Kindly rid the quarters of all your per­sonal belongings. I'll have a severance check waiting for you on the hall table within an hour."

  Schyler ran ahead of Cash up the sweeping staircase. He took the stairs two at a time. Mrs. Graves was left standing slack-jawed in the hall. Tricia and Ken were stone-faced. Schyler ignored their glares from below as she reached the second-story landing and pointed out her room to Cash. He went ahead of her. By the time she reached the doorway, he was already depositing Gayla on her bed.

  "It's going to make a helluva mess." When he withdrew his arms from beneath Gayla's limp body, the front of his shirt was bloodstained.

  "It doesn't matter. I just made a bigger mess down­stairs," Schyler muttered as she bent over Gayla. "While I undress her, you call the doctor."

  "No doctor."

  "What?" Schyler sprang erect and stared at him incomprehensively.

  "Have her undressed by the time I get back." He headed for the door.

  "Wait!" Schyler charged after him. Her fingers slipped on his bloody sleeve, but she managed to stop him. "I thought you said you could get a doctor here. Where are you going?"

  "I'm the doctor, but I've got to go get my stuff."

  Her face turned pale. "Are you crazy? She needs profes­sional help. She could die. This isn't a mosquito bite, Cash. She's bleeding and I don't even know—"

  "It's vaginal bleeding. She's had a miscarriage." Schyler sucked in a sharp breath and held it. She gaped at him speechlessly. "I recognize it. My mother lost a baby. There was nobody else to take care of her. I had to. She told me what to do. I know how to deal with it."

  Schyler spun around and lurched for the phone. She picked up the receiver, but before it ever made it to her ear, Cash yanked it out of her hand and slammed it back down. "You promised Gayla."

  "I can't take responsibility for this."

  "You promised."

  "But I didn't know it was anything this bad. What if she dies?"

  They'd been shouting at each other. Cash pressed her shoulders between his hands and lowered his voice drasti­cally. "I can help her. Trust me." He gave her shoulders a hard squeeze. "Trust me."

  For ponderous moments, Schyler stared into his eyes. She glanced down at Gayla. When her eyes moved back to his, her posture went as limp as her linen blouse. Lips barely moving, she said, "If anyone downstairs tries to stop you—"

  "I'll take care of it. Nothing would give me greater plea­sure."

  Schyler watched him go, praying that she had made the right decision. Then she turned back to the bed and the grim chore ahead of her.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Schyler had time to sponge Gayla off before Cash re­turned. Dirt and dried blood had concealed evidence of previous beatings. With each swipe of the wet cloth, Schyler's pity for her friend increased in proportion to her hatred for Jigger Flynn. By the time Cash came rushing through the door, there were tears of pity standing in Schyler's eyes.

  "She's got marks and scars a
ll over her," she told him.

  "I doubt Jigger is a tender lover."

  "He's an animal that should be locked up." "Don't hold your breath." He sat down on the edge of the bed and studied Gayla's face. "How is she otherwise?"

  "No more bleeding."

  "Good. Shown any signs of coming around?"

  "She's conscious. She moaned while I was washing her."

  Cash laid his hand on Gayla's forehead and called her name softly. "Gayla, wake up and talk to me. I need to ask you some questions." Her eyelids flickered open. She looked at him, then over his shoulder at Schyler. "You're at Belle Terre. Safe."

  "Safe." They watched her cut and swollen lips form the disbelieving word. Her eyes closed peacefully.

  "Don't go back to sleep yet," Cash said, shaking her awake. "I'm going to treat you, but I have to ask you some questions first."

  She struggled to keep her eyes open. "Okay."

  He opened his leather pouch and took out a jar of salve. He folded back the sheet and began applying the waxy, yellow substance to the scratches on her chest and arms. "How far along was your pregnancy?"

  Tears sprang into her eyes as the old fears swamped her again. Her face twisted in anguish. "I couldn't have his baby. Devil man that he is, I just couldn't."

  "There is no baby. Not anymore." Cash clasped her hand reassuringly. "How far along were you before you started bleeding? How late was your period?"

  "Six, eight weeks maybe."

  "Bien."

  "I took the medicine you sent me."

  "Medicine?" Schyler exclaimed. She turned on Cash. "You knew about this before today?"

  He shushed her. Gayla was still speaking in a faint, far­away voice. "Jigger said you told him it would fix me right up."

  Schyler demanded Cash's attention again. "You gave that man medicine for her?"

  "Oui, now shut up."

  "You dealt with him?" Schyler asked, flabbergasted.

  Cash whipped his head around. "I did. He came to my house, told me Gayla was bleeding. That she'd had a mis­carriage. What was I supposed to do, ignore him?"

  "You could have told me."

  "So you could do what? Go butting into business that didn't concern you? So you could shoot up his place one more time and get him really pissed off at you?" She fell silent, but she was still fuming. "Besides, that was when Cotton was at his worst. It didn't look like he was going to pull through. You had your hands full and didn't need any­thing more to worry about."

  He went back to his unpleasant task. He laid his finger against a circular scar on the side of Gayla's breast. "Ciga­rette bum," he said softly. Gayla whimpered with a terrible memory. Cash's face turned compassionate. "What brought on the miscarriage?"

  Gayla rolled to her side and buried her face in the snowy pillowcase. Schyler and Cash looked at each other, puz­zled. She had said she didn't want Jigger's baby, but now she seemed upset at the mention of her miscarriage. Cash touched her bare shoulder and turned her over. "Gayla, tell me. What happened? Did Jigger get too rough with you?"

  She shook her head slowly from side to side. Tears rolled down her ravaged cheek, liquifying dried blood. "I did it myself. I started the bleeding."

  "Jesus," Cash breathed.

  Schyler raised both hands to her lips and pressed them until they were white.

  "I couldn't have his baby," Gayla averred in a hoarse voice. "I'll go to hell, won't I, for killing it? God'll send me to hell for murdering my own baby."

  She was on the brink of hysteria. Cash leaned over her, pressing her back onto the pillows. "You're not going to hell, Gayla. You're not the sinner. You're the one sinned against. Did the medicine I sent help you?"

  "Yes. Thank you, Mr. Boudreaux. I was real sick till Jigger brought me the medicine. I followed the directions and took it all. It stopped the bleeding. I was feeling better, but then. . ."

  She looked around the room warily, as though she were in the witness box and the defendant on trial was likely to kill her on the spot if she told the truth.

  "Then what, Gayla?" Cash prompted softly, dabbing at a cut on her shoulder with peroxide-soaked cotton.

  Gayla looked up at Schyler. Her dark eyes were shim­mering with tears of remorse. "He made me go with one of the gentlemen." The words were almost inaudible. "I didn't want to. I told him I couldn't because I wasn't com­pletely healed up yet, but—" She turned her face into the pillow again. "The man paid a hundred dollars for me. Jigger made me go."

  Cash glanced at Schyler. She shook her head in wordless incredulity. Gayla's tale was medieval. That kind of sub­servience couldn't occur in the twentieth century. But it had.

  "Did this gentleman," Cash said with a sneer, "make you have sex with him?" Gayla nodded her head. Cash swore viciously. "Why did Jigger beat you today?"

  "I refused to go again today. I told Jigger I wasn't feel­ing good, that I'd started bleeding again. But he didn't want to make the man mad."

  "Was it the same man as before?"

  "I think so. I saw his car."

  "Who? Who is he?"

  "I don't know his name. But he. . .

  "What?"

  "He. . . he takes pictures of me."

  Schyler shivered. Cash mentally filed the information. "Exactly what happened this afternoon?"

  "I said I wouldn't go. The man got tired of waiting and went away. After he left, Jigger whipped me with his razor strop. He did this," she gestured at her swollen jaw, "with his fist. It had a chain wrapped around it."

  Cash called Jigger a gutter name, which Schyler thought was well deserved.

  "He told me to reconsider my decision while I was locked in the shed." Gayla's lips began to quiver. "That's the worst beating he's ever given me. The next time, he'll kill me. I know it. I had to run away while I had the chance." Her face contorted with anxiety. "He'll kill me when he finds me."

  "He can't touch you as long as you're here." Schyler laid a reassuring hand on Gayla's arm. "You don't have to ever be afraid of him again."

  Gayla didn't look so certain. "You don't hate me, Schyler, for what I've done?"

  "Of course not. You were victimized."

  "Mama couldn't work. She was sick. I had to feed her, buy her medicine. I couldn't find a job, so I took one serving drinks in the beer joint. Mama would have killed me if she'd known what I was doing. I told her I was working at the Dairy Mart."

  She wet her lips and twisted the hem of the sheet Cash had pulled up over her. "Mama got sicker. I asked Jigger for a raise. He said there was only one way I could make more money."

  "Shh, Gayla, don't," Schyler said.

  "I went with that first man 'cause I was gonna get fifty dollars out of it. I cried and cried afterwards because of Jimmy Don. I knew he would hate me if he ever found out. I thought it would just be that once. That's all, I swear. I didn't set out to become a whore."

  "I know. You don't have to tell me anymore."

  "But that fifty dollars went fast. And I needed some more." Her shoulders shook. "I went with another man. Then another. Jigger kept bringing them to me."

  "Gayla, nobody needs to hear a confession," Cash said. He cradled the sobbing woman in his arms and said to Schyler, "I need to examine her. Can you bring her some­thing to drink? Hot tea? Something?"

  Schyler pressed Gayla's arm once more before with­drawing. Outside the door she pulled closed behind her, she let go a long, deep breath and for a moment leaned back against the wall. She was fatigued, physically and emotionally, but she couldn't rest yet. She went down­stairs.

  Ken was nowhere in sight. Tricia was in the front parlor. She stopped pacing when she saw Schyler and stormily followed her into the kitchen. Schyler put the kettle on the stove and turned on the burner beneath it.

  "You weren't serious when you fired Mrs. Graves, were you?"

  "Thank you for reminding me, Tricia. I need to write her a check."

  "I won't let you fire her."

  "I already have. I despise the woman. I have ever
since I came home."

  "But you can't fire her just like that," Tricia said, snap­ping her fingers inches in front of Schyler's nose, "just because she expressed out loud what Ken and I were think­ing. Something's happened to you, Schyler. You've gone off the deep end. Lately, you've become unreasonable."

  "I fired Mrs. Graves because she insulted a friend of mine. And even though the friend was unconscious at the time and didn't hear the insult, I did. As to being unreason­able," she said reflectively, "perhaps you're right." She calmly set the pot of hot tea she'd prepared on a tray. Pick­ing up the tray, she faced her sister. "Mrs. Graves can wait until morning to leave. I really don't have time to write out a check now."

  Tricia's face fell. She was right on Schyler's heels as she headed toward the stairs. "You won't get away with this, Miss High-and-Mighty. Where do you get off, coming home after six years and throwing your weight around, undoing everything that I've done?"

  Schyler turned and confronted her. "Everything you've done needs undoing, Tricia."

  Tricia went as straight and rigid as an arrow. Through clenched teeth she warned, "First thing in the morning, Cotton will hear about this."

  Schyler set the tray on the hall table and backed Tricia into the wall. "Cotton will hear about nothing," she said through clenched teeth. "Do you understand me?"

  "Watch and see."

  "If you go barging into the hospital and upset him, what might happen? He could have another heart attack, right? He could die. Suddenly. And then where would all your plans for selling Belle Terre be? Out the window. Because I'm sure Daddy's will divides it equally between us, and I'll see you in hell before I'll ever let my half of it be sold. Your chances of talking Cotton into it are so slim as to be negligible. But your chances with me are positively zero." She picked up the tray again. "Think about that, baby sis­ter, before you go to Cotton and start tattling."

  Inside the bedroom, Cash was gently tucking the covers around Gayla. Schyler looked at him for information.

  "I don't think she did much damage, though God knows how she kept from it." He ran his hand through his hair, which was already untidy. "Believe me, you don't want to hear the details. It's a miracle she didn't bleed to death."

  "Does she need a transfusion?" Schyler asked, looking down at Gayla and keeping her voice low.