Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  "I was afraid she might, but I don't think so. If I did, I'd drive her to the hospital myself. She wasn't bleeding from her uterus. She'd been. . . well. . . scratched up inside." Schyler winced. "Those scratches had opened up, thanks to the shutterbug. I found some Kotex in the bathroom. Change the pad often. If the bleeding increases, let me know. If she stays in bed a few days, she'll be all right."

  "What about her face?"

  "No structural damage. Once the swelling goes down, she'll be as pretty as ever. The scratches and cuts will heal."

  "After the trauma she's lived through the last few years, I don't know if she'll ever be completely healed." Schyler extended him the tray. "Here's the tea."

  Cash reached into his bag again and took out a small vial. He uncorked it and poured several drops of the con­tents into the tea. "What is that?" Schyler asked.

  "The narcs don't know about this one. It's an ancient recipe handed down through generations of traiteurs. It'll keep Gayla asleep for several hours." He cupped Gayla's head in his hand and lifted it off the pillow. "Gayla, drink this." He placed the rim of the china cup between her bat­tered lips. "It'll make you feel like you're on a flying car­pet headed for Nirvana."

  Gayla sipped the strong, potion-laced tea. She gazed up at Schyler. "How come you're doing this for me?"

  "Stupid question, Gayla. I loved your mother. And I love you."

  "I don't deserve anybody's love," she said solemnly. "Not even God's."

  "He loves you, too."

  Gayla shook her head with conviction. "Not after I killed my baby. That's a mortal sin." She lapsed into a moment of self-examination. "It doesn't matter though. Jimmy Don couldn't ever love me again after all the men who've had me. And I loved Jimmy Don more than I loved God." She gazed up at them, her eyes now made lambent by Cash's potion. "Do you think that's why God let Jigger get me? Was God jealous of Jimmy Don?"

  Cash set the empty cup on the nightstand. "I'm a long way from being a prophet, Gayla. But I don't think God shits on people the way other people do."

  Gayla seemed to take comfort in that unorthodox piece of theology. Her eyelids closed. Seconds later, her entire body went limp. "She's out," Cash said, standing up.

  Schyler looked at him, noticing for the first time how tired he seemed. He had changed shirts while he was gone, but otherwise, he looked worse for wear. She cleared her throat and began awkwardly, "Cash, I don't know how to thank you."

  "Forget it. I didn't do it for you."

  "Yes, but—"

  The sudden pounding on the door halted whatever she was about to say. She was too stunned to respond. Cash grunted a dangerous, "Who is it?"

  "Deputy Sheriff Walker."

  Cash uttered an expletive beneath his breath. Then he called out, "Hold on a sec."

  His hand caught Schyler around the back of the neck and yanked her forward. He kissed her mouth soundly, rolling his tongue over her lips until they were red and wet and shiny. He roughly rubbed his stubbled chin against her throat. He tore open two buttons of her blouse, reached inside and pushed down her bra strap. "Try to look like you've been screwing."

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  "What the hell do you want, Walker? It better be damned important."

  "Deputy Sheriff Walker flinched when Cash Boudreaux querulously yanked open the door. He cursed his rotten luck. Sheriff Patout would have his ass if he didn't follow through on this call, but, hell, he didn't want a hassel with Boudreaux. From the looks of it, the Cajun was in a tetchy state of mind, too. He was a far cry from a good ol' boy any day of the week. Anybody who went up against the ornery cuss was likely to get a knife between his ribs. Still, it was his duty to check out this complaint.

  Cash had one arm braced on the dooijamb. His body was blocking the narrow opening. The deputy peered around him, trying to look stern and official. That wasn't easy for a man who had to shave only every other day.

  "Hiya, Cash. Miss Schyler." He tipped his hat at her. She was standing in the background wearing whisker burns around her mouth and a dazed expression in her eyes. Damn Boudreaux's luck. His legendary dick got him in­vited between even the classiest thighs.

  Walker drew his thoughts back to professional matters.

  "Domestic quarrel in here. Is that right?"

  "A domestic. . ." Cash rolled his eyes and cursed. "That dumbass. Is he talking about Gayla? Gayla just had a little accident. She got banged up a little. A few scratches. I'm hurting a whole helluva lot worse than she is."

  "Whadaya mean, Cash? What's goin' on?"

  "Well," Cash drew out the word and glanced over his shoulder at Schyler, "I don't have to tell you everything, do I?"

  The deputy cleared his throat importantly and said, "Yeah, you do. Everything."

  Cash stared him down, then cursed in apparent exaspera­tion. "All right. You see me and Schyler were having a little picnic out in the woods." He tilted his head. Walker followed the direction he indicated and spotted the half-full bottle of champagne standing on the nightstand. "I wasn't exactly nibbling on fried chicken. Understand what I'm saying?" Walker swallowed hard and bobbed his head. "In fact," Cash said, "I was really getting with it, when here comes one of Jigger's whores tumbling down the hill."

  Walker guffawed. "You and me both've seen whores with their heels in the air."

  Cash's face changed. His eyes turned cold. Walker began sweating and cursed his stupidity. He'd gone too far.

  But Cash went on easily. "Right. I didn't think anything about it. I was anxious to continue what we'd been doing." He frowned. "I'd forgotten that Schyler knows Gayla from way back. She got upset because Gayla was hurt and asked me to fix her up. So, we called off our . . . uh, picnic and brought Gayla here. She's sleeping, but if you want to come on in and look for yourself. . ." He stepped aside and swept his arm wide.

  The deputy glanced at the bed, where Jigger's whore was indeed sleeping peacefully. He looked at Schyler and blushed to the tips of his ears. Sure enough, she looked like she could have been the main course at a picnic with Cash Boudreaux. Her clothes and hair were in a mess. She seemed embarrassed and guilty as hell to be caught seen with Boudreaux. Shifting from one foot to another, she raised one hand to her blouse and nervously fidgeted with an unfastened button. A spectacular amount of cleavage was showing. He'd like to get a closer look, but the Cajun probably wouldn't want him ogling his current woman. Cash was touchy about things like that.

  "No, that's okay, Cash. I don't need to come in." Walker started to move away, but paused. "Only. . . Well, Mr. Ho­well said that maybe Jigger Flynn was involved."

  "Jigger? Did you see Jigger anywhere around, Schyler?" Boudreaux consulted with her over his shoulder.

  "Uh, no." She self-consciously smoothed her hand over her tousled hair. "I didn't see him."

  Cash shrugged. "All we saw was Gayla barreling down that hill end over end."

  "What was she doing out in the woods all by herself?"

  "How the hell should I—No, wait. On the way here, she mumbled something about communing with God."

  "God?"

  "Look, I don't know what the hell she was muttering about, okay?"

  "Uh, yeah, okay."

  "So is that it?"

  "Well—"

  "If so, beat it. We've got better things to do." He leaned forward and whispered, "Give me a break, Walker. I've got a hard-on that's stiff as a pike and I'm beginning to fear this just ain't my day to get laid."

  Walker laughed and jabbed Cash in the ribs. "I know what that's like, man."

  "Then have a little pity and get the hell out of here."

  Louder than was necessary, Walker said, "Well, I'd bet­ter let y'all get about your business. Sony to have bothered y'all." He gave Cash a broad wink. "Miss Schyler, ma'am." He tipped his hat and turned away. He had almost reached the top of the stairs when she surprised him by catching up.

  "I'll show you out, Mr. Walker."

  She fell into step with him. Walker thought that showed re
al moxey. Catch a lady with her pants down and she's still a lady. As they went downstairs side by side, he gazed about him. He hadn't done too badly. He had parted com­pany with Boudreaux on a friendly basis and he'd got to take a gander at the inside of Belle Terre.

  He would have something exciting to tell the wife after his shift. She would pester him with questions, wanting to know what this and that looked like. Damn! He hadn't noticed the color of Miss Schyler Crandall's bedroom. What the hell, he'd make something up. The wife would never know the difference.

  There was a tense moment when they went past the par­lor. Ken and Tricia watched from the arched opening. "Well?" Ken demanded, stepping into the foyer.

  "Cash and I explained everything to Deputy Walker. He's agreed that Gayla should stay here," Schyler said smoothly. She guided the deputy to the door. "Thank you so much for stopping by."

  The door was closed behind Walker before he fully real­ized what had happened. Schyler turned to face the Howells. They both looked ready to bludgeon her. Before she could give it much thought, something at the top of the stairs attracted her attention. Cash was coming down them, casually trailing his hand along the banister.

  Tricia and Ken turned to stare with open animosity. His appearance only fueled their hostility. "I won't have that black whore sleeping under my roof," Tricia ground out.

  "You have no choice," Schyler said evenly. "Gayla is here to stay for as long as she wants to. When I've had a chance to explain the situation to Cotton, I'm sure he'll be in full agreement with my decision." Tired as she was, Schyler dared either of them to take issue with her.

  Ken accepted the challenge. "What about him? Have you asked him to spend the night, too?"

  "Thanks, but I've already made other plans," Cash re­plied politely, a sardonic smirk on his lips.

  Tricia looked at Cash with condescending speculation as she passed him on her way upstairs. "Excuse me," she said with hauteur.

  Ken was less subtle when he went past. "You'll be sorry, Boudreaux."

  "I doubt it."

  Seconds later, the slamming of their bedroom door re­verberated through the house. Schyler blew out her breath. "I won't be winning any popularity contests around here any time soon."

  "Does it matter?"

  "Not if I'd have to do anything differently, no." She stood facing him awkwardly, clasping and unclasping her hands at her waist. She was able to stand up to her sis­ter's and Ken's angst, but she faltered beneath Cash's steady stare, especially in light of the lie he'd told the dep­uty. She could feel the whisker burns around her lips. She hadn't looked in a mirror lately but knew they must be obvious. At the very least she looked well kissed. That couldn't have won her any points with either Ken or Tricia.

  "I don't like being indebted to you," she told Cash can­didly.

  "What'll you give me?"

  "What do you want?"

  "You know damn well what I want," he growled. "But for now, one drink would cancel all debts."

  "This way."

  She turned and led him toward the formal parlor; how­ever, he paused in the doorway of the dining room with the yellow silk walls. Schyler, turning, watched him curiously for several seconds. "Cash? Coming?"

  "Oui" he replied absently. Beneath his breath he whis­pered, "For you, Maman."

  Schyler went to the sideboard that served as a liquor cabinet and withdrew a decanter of bourbon. She poured a generous portion into a tumbler. "Ice? Water?"

  When he didn't answer, she turned and caught him piv­oting slowly, taking in every aspect of the room. "Cash?" she repeated. He came to attention with a start. "How do you want your drink?"

  "Neat." He came to her, took the glass from her hand and tossed back the contents. He extended the glass, she poured more of the liquor. He drank it the same way.

  "That's two drinks," she remarked.

  "Then I guess I'll be indebted to you."

  "That would be a switch." Since he had set his glass down, she capped the Waterford decanter.

  "You're not having one?"

  "Ice water." The two ice cubes she took from the silver bucket rattled noisily in the glass. She splashed water over them and took a drink. "Champagne always makes me thirsty."

  "And drunk."

  "I should have warned you."

  "I didn't mind."

  He was the first to look away from their long stare. He took in the luxurious surroundings, which bespoke wealth and refinement that was generations old. "You've never been inside Belle Terre before, have you?"

  "No," he answered tersely. "Pretty fancy."

  "Most of the furniture and accessories in this room are replacements of the originals. The Union army didn't have much of an appreciation for the house. When they left it, they burned what little could have been salvaged. Only the rug and that clock on the mantel are origi­nals. An enterprising Laurent was able to sneak them out."

  "How'd they get so rich to start with?"

  "There was always timber, of course. But they invested the money they brought from France in several plantations. Sugarcane. Rice. Most of the family never even saw those. They were miles away. They only grew their household crops around here."

  "Who's that?"

  She glanced toward the oil portrait hanging above the marble mantel. "Macy's great-grandmother."

  Cash gazed at the thin, pale woman in the portrait. "Not bad. Not a knockout, but not bad."

  "How sexist!"

  He looked down at Schyler, letting his eyes rove over her hair and face and figure. Unlike Walker, he didn't avoid looking at her exposed cleavage. He even touched the smooth skin with his fingertip and watched it glide over the soft curves as he asked, "Will your portrait hang up there some day? Will a couple of descendants stand in this spot and discuss your attributes?"

  "I doubt if I'll ever have a portrait painted. And if I did, it wouldn't be right to hang it up there."

  "How come?"

  "I'm not a Laurent. Not even half of one. I came to live at Belle Terre purely by chance."

  He studied her for a long moment, then abruptly with­drew his caressing hand. "I gotta go. Gayla should be fine in a few days. I left some ointment on the table by the bed. Apply it twice a day to those scratches on her arms and legs."

  "Do you think Jigger will come looking for her?"

  "I wouldn't be surprised. Be careful."

  He had made it to the front door before Schyler caught up with him. She was puzzled over his rush to leave. She was also irrationally disappointed. "Will you be at the landing in the morning?"

  He shook his head no. "I'll go straight to where we're cutting and start marking trees. We've got that order to fill, remember?"

  "Actually I didn't. So much has happened since our meeting with Joe Jr." She trailed Cash out onto the ve­randa, inexplicably reluctant to have him go. "Cash?" He turned. "That lie you told the deputy. . ."

  "It wasn't exactly a lie, was it?"

  "Yes, yes it was. And I didn't approve."

  "Tough. I didn't have time to consult you first."

  "It'll be all over town tomorrow that we were making out in the woods."

  "That's the price you'll pay for taking in Gayla. Sorry?"

  "No, of course not. Only. . ."

  "Only . . .?"

  "I just wish you had told Walker something else."

  "I had to get his mind on us and off her."

  "Well your lie certainly worked to do that."

  "Oui, it did."

  She wet her lips. They still tasted like him. The whisker burns stung. "Do lies always come to you that easily?"

  He backed into the darkness and was swallowed up by it. "Always."

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  "I suppose you expect me to wait on her hand and foot."

  "On the contrary, Tricia. I expect you to pretend that Gayla isn't here."

  "Good. That's what I plan to do."

  The two sisters were in the downstairs hall. Schyler was dressed and ready to go to
work. She had just spoken to Cotton over the telephone, promising to visit him that af­ternoon with a full account of her interview with Endicott.

  "Gayla only drank tea for breakfast and then went back to sleep," Schyler told Tricia. "I imagine she'll sleep most of the day. I've left Suit juice on the nightstand beside her bed, along with the muffins Mrs. Graves baked yesterday. If Gayla gets hungry before I come home, she can eat those without having to disturb you. I've left her a note to call the office if she needs me."

  "Mrs. Graves left this morning."

  "Good. That's one less thing I have to worry about."

  "Don't expect me to do any housekeeping. This place can rot and fall down for all I care."

  "I'll start looking for a housekeeper as soon as I get to the office."

  "And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

  Impatiently Schyler said, "In the meantime, you can fend for yourself or go hungry."

  Tricia's eyes narrowed. "You can't order me around like you do everybody else, including my husband. It's going to stop, Schyler, do you hear me?"

  "I'm sure everyone in the neighboring parish heard you, Tricia. Kindly stop yelling at me."

  "I have every right to yell. You've got Cajun white trash and a nigger whore traipsing through my house."

  Schyler came close to slapping her. Perhaps she would have had the telephone not rung just then. Instead of rais­ing a hand to Tricia, she yanked up the receiver. "It's for Ken." Laying the receiver on the table, she picked up her handbag and left before she submitted to an impulse to throttle her adopted sister.

  Ken took the call upstairs. "Hello?"

  "Hiya, Kenny."

  Sweat popped out on his forehead. "I've got it, Tricia." He waited to make sure that she had hung up the extention downstairs before he said anything more. "What the hell do you think you're doing by calling here? I told you never to call me here."

  "What you told me ain't worth shit. If it was, Kenny, I'd have my money by now, wouldn't I? It really pisses me off when people don't keep their word to me."