Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  "That's what she said, Cash."

  "Did she say why? Did it have something to do with Cotton?"

  "The lady don't inform me of her comin's and goin's. All I know is that she was in a big hurry. Shouted out to me that she'd be at the hospital if anybody asked, then herded that car of hers outta here lickety split."

  Cash's face settled into a deep frown. His brows were pulled down low over his eyes. He stared toward the bridge in the direction Schyler had taken.

  "Anything wrong, Cash?" the logger asked worriedly.

  "No. Probably nothing." He roused himself from his private thoughts and tried to appear casual. "Keep an eye on things here, okay? Get all this timber ready to load on the train before quitting time. If I don't come back, see that the office is locked for the night before you leave. And tell Kermit to sit in there for the rest of the afternoon and man the phone. He got red in the face because of the heat, but he doesn't want to miss out on the overtime."

  "Okay, Cash, but where're you goin'?"

  Cash didn't hear him. He was already running toward his pickup.

  "I'm going to turn the downstairs study into a bedroom for you. It might not be finished by tomorrow, but when I get through with it, you'll be able to lie in bed and look outside at the back lawn of Belle Terre."

  "I liked my old bedroom."

  Cotton sounded grumpy, but Schyler knew how pleased he was to be going home. She tried to hide her indulgent smile. "Dr. Collins said you shouldn't be climbing the stairs."

  He aimed an adamant index finger at her. "I won't be babied. Not by you. Not by anybody. I've had enough of that in here. I'm not an invalid."

  That's exactly what he was. He knew that's what he was, but Schyler knew better than to let on that he was. "You're damn right you're not. Don't expect to be pam­pered. I'm going to put you to work as soon as you're rested up."

  "From what I hear you've got more help around the place than you can use." He shrewdly gauged her reaction from beneath his bushy white eyebrows.

  "Tricia told you about Mrs. Dunne?"

  "She did. Said she's bossy as all get out."

  "Maybe that's why I like her so much. She reminds me of Veda."

  " 'Xcept she's white."

  "Well, yes, there is that difference," Schyler said, laughing.

  "Can she cook as good as Veda?"

  "Yes." She waved a sheet of paper in front of him. "She can cook everything on this diet Jeff gave me for you."

  "Shit."

  "Come now, it's not that bad," she teased. "But there'll be no grits and sausage gravy for you. And I won't have you bribing Mrs. Dunne either. Her first loyalty is to me. She won't be swayed, no matter how persuasive or ornery you get."

  Cotton's expression remained disagreeable. "I wasn't just referring to the housekeeper when I mentioned the new help."

  Schyler kept her smile intact. Was he referring to Cash? Had Tricia, in spite of Schyler's warning, come tattling?

  "Veda's girl," Cotton grunted. "I hear she's taken up residence at Belle Terre."

  The tension in Schyler's chest receded. "Yes, Gayla's there at my invitation. I felt like we Crandalls were respon­sible for her misfortunes."

  "I heard she's trashy as the day is long."

  "I'm sure you have," she said, thinking of Tricia's vi­cious tongue. "But there were extenuating circumstances. Jigger Flynn's been abusing her for years. This time he nearly killed her. Luckily she was able to get away from him. While she's recuperating, I want her to stay with us."

  "That's mighty generous of you."

  She pretended not to notice his sarcasm. "Thank you."

  Schyler's motives were not purely unselfish. She trea­sured Gayla's friendship. Lately, her list of friends had dwindled drastically. Because of their most recent alterca­tion, every time Tricia looked at Schyler, resentment wafted from her like cheap perfume.

  As for Ken, Schyler apparently had bruised his pride when she asked him to leave her alone with Cash. On the heels of turning down his request of a loan, she had added insult to injury. He, too, was avoiding her these days. He spoke only when it was absolutely necessary and then with rigid politeness.

  Cash had dispensed with their coffee-drinking sessions in the mornings. She knew he had been in the landing office ahead of her each day when she arrived, but since their latest quarrel, he had made it a point to leave before she got there. If he returned to the landing before she left in the evenings, he spent the time in the yard among the men, making daily inventory of the timber that had been cut, weighing the loads, recording the figures, and supervising the loading of it onto the freight cars.

  If it was necessary for him to consult with her on some­thing pertaining to business, he did so as briefly as possi­ble. His face looked like it would crack if he smiled. His hazel eyes seemed to look straight through her. He was as remote and quick to take offense as when they had first met. His hostility was sexually charged. She knew it, felt it, and recognized it because she felt the same way.

  She was restless. During the hot days, she used exhaust­ing work to keep that internal turmoil on simmer. But at night she tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep, her mind occupied with disturbing thoughts and even more disturbing fantasies. She hated acknowledging how much she missed Cash. Even having him around when he was surly and insulting was preferable to not having him around at all. Also, recollections of that rainy afternoon kept her in a constant state of dissatisfaction.

  So she had taken solace in the quiet talks she shared with Gayla. She talked frequently about Mark and their life in London. Gayla, tearfully and over a period of days, re­vealed what her nightmarish life with Jigger Flynn had been like. Schyler urged her to press charges against him, but Gayla wouldn't hear of it.

  "He'd kill me, Schyler, before he ever came to trial. Even if he was in jail, he'd find a way. Besides, who would believe me?" she had asked.

  Who indeed? Gayla's tales were unbelievable.

  "There was a girl who worked in the Pelican Lounge," Gayla had told her one afternoon. "Jigger strangled her for not giving him his fair cut of what she earned. One morn­ing she was found dead in a dumpster out behind the build­ing. Her murder went down as an unsolved crime. I even tipped the sheriff with an anonymous phone call, but noth­ing was ever done about it."

  "How could a law officer just blow off a murder like that?"

  "Either he was scared of Jigger, or, most probably, he thought the girl had it coming for holding out on him."

  Gayla had also told her, "Another of the girls got preg­nant by one of her johns. Only he wasn't just a customer to her. She loved him and wanted to have the baby. Jigger found out about it and knew that if she carried the baby, he'd lose a valuable employee. He beat her with his fists until she aborted.

  "He gets crazy if somebody welshes on a bet. One man owed him a lot of money over a pit bull fight. Jigger sent thugs out to get it, but they couldn't collect. The man went out in his fishing boat one day and never was seen again. They ruled it an accidental drowning and dragged the lake for his body. I guarantee you, it's anchored to the bottom and never will be found."

  Day by day, with the help of Cash's ointment and Mrs. Dunne's plentiful meals, Gayla recovered physically. The scratches on her face diminished and eventually disap­peared. The swelling went down until her beautiful bone structure was evident again. The bleeding stopped, but she was jittery; she jumped at every loud noise. Schyler real­ized that it would take months, maybe years, for Gayla to get over her recurring fears and to recover emotionally from the hellish existence she'd been subjected to.

  Still, she was fiercely proud. "I can't stay here indefi­nitely, Schyler," she had insisted on more than one occa­sion.

  Schyler had been just as insistent. "I want you here, Gayla. I need a friend,"

  "But I can't ever repay you."

  "I don't want you to."

  "I can't take your charity."

  Schyler had considered it for a moment. "I can't a
fford to pay you a salary just now. Would you be willing to work for room and board?"

  "Work? You just hired Mrs. Dunne."

  "But there's plenty for you to do."

  "Like what?" Gayla had asked skeptically. "You've got a crew that takes care of the yard. Somebody else tends to the horses. What is there for me to do?"

  "I'd like the books in the small parlor to be cataloged. Those shelves haven't been inventoried in years. No telling what's op there. Yon can start on that. And don't rash it. Don't wear yourself out now that you're regaining your strength. Work only when you feel like it."

  Gayla had seen through Schyler's ploy. She knew the job had been invented and was unnecessary. "All right. I'll inventory the books. Some of the houseplants need atten­tion, too," she had said, holding her chin at a proud tilt. "Mama would have a fit if she could see how they've been neglected. And there's mending that needs to be done. I've noticed tears in some of the bed linens."

  Gayla had moved out of Schyler's bedroom and into a small room off the kitchen. She refused to eat with the family in the dining room as Schyler had wanted her to. Instead she stubbornly ate her meals with Mrs. Dunne in the kitchen. They had established a fast friendship because Mrs. Dunne's kindness was extensive.

  "Gayla has fit in beautifully," Schyler told her father now. "In fact, I don't know how I managed without her. I think you'll find everything at Belle Terre to your liking."

  He frowned doubtfully. "You'll hear about it if I don't."

  "I'm sure I will." She eased herself off the edge of his bed. "See you in the morning. Not too early. You'll have breakfast here. Take your time getting showered and shaved. I'll be here around ten, okay?" She bent down and kissed him good-bye.

  He caught her hand. "I'm proud of that Endicott deal. You did a good job, Schyler."

  She hadn't told him why Endicott had stopped using them as a supplier. Until she could satisfy herself with an explanation, she didn't want to get Cotton worked up over it. '"Thanks, Daddy. I'm glad you approve."

  For the first time in days, Schyler's step was springy as she crossed the hospital lobby on her way out. She had almost reached the sliding glass doors when they opened for a man coming in.

  Upon seeing him, she stopped dead in her tracks. "Mark!"

  Cash lit a cigarette with the smoldering butt of his last one. He inhaled the acrid smoke while staring at the facade of St. John's Hospital. At any moment, he expected some­one to appear with a black wreath to hang over the sliding glass doors.

  For the last half hour, he'd been sitting in a widening puddle of his own sweat in the cab of his pickup, smoking, and trying to work up enough courage to cross the street and inquire at the front desk whether or not Cotton Cran­dall had died.

  He didn't want to know.

  But he had a strong suspicion that's why Schyler had left the landing in the middle of the day. She wouldn't have done that unless there was a crisis of some kind. Her peri­odic reports to him on Cotton's condition had been fairly optimistic.

  His heart was stronger, but still weak.

  He was improving, but not altogether out of the woods.

  The operation had been a success, but there was a lim­ited amount of repair that could be done.

  Cash knew that Cotton's life was still in danger. Any little thing could go wrong; obviously something had.

  The endless cigarettes had made his throat dry and irri­tated. Impatiently he tossed the one he'd just lit out the open window of his truck. When he did, he noticed a man walking toward the entrance to the hospital.

  He was arresting in that he was so different. He lit into the southwestern Louisiana backdrop about as well as an Eskimo would in Tahiti. He looked out of place in his white slacks and navy blazer. He had on white shoes. White shoes, for chrissake! A jaunty red handkerchief was sticking out of his breast pocket. His hair was blond and so straight it could have just come off an ironing board. It was neatly parted on one side and glistened in the sunlight. He was wearing dark sunglasses, but the eyes they shaded would have to be as blue as the sky.

  He jogged up the steps of the entrance with the self-con­fidence of a man who knew that everyone he passed turned to get a better look. He looked polished and cosmopolitan enough to be at home in cities that the people who gawked at him had never even heard of. He was so handsome he could have stepped off the cover of a flashy magazine.

  Cash got a real sick feeling deep in his gut.

  His worst suspicion was confirmed when the man came face-to-face with Schyler in the doorway. Cash heard her squeal his name in surprise. A smile of pure delight broke across her face a split second before she launched herself against the man's chest. Well-tailored sleeves enfolded her. They hugged each other tightly, rocking together joyfully. Then the man kissed her full on the mouth.

  Even from across the street, Cash could see that her face was radiant as she gazed up at the blond god, babbling questions while quick, excited little laughs bubbled out of her smiling lips.

  One thing was for damn certain—the broad wasn't in mourning.

  Cash nearly broke off the key in the ignition when he cranked it on. He nearly stripped the transmission of his pickup, making it to third gear before he reached the stop sign at the nearest comer. He wanted to get Schyler's at­tention. He wanted her to see just how unimpressed he was with her affluent, well-dressed, sophisticated roommate.

  When Cash glanced in his rearview mirror, however, he saw that she hadn't even noticed him. She was engrossed with her lover.

  Chapter Forty-one

  "My God, it's Tara."

  Schyler beamed beneath Mark's praise. "It's lovelier than Tara."

  Mark Houghton glanced at her from the passenger side of her car. "And you're lovelier than Scarlett."

  "You're an angel for saying so, but that's crap. I'm ex­hausted and it shows."

  He shook his head. "You're gorgeous. I'd forgotten how much."

  Schyler had forgotten how nice it was to hear a compli­ment. Her face glowed around her smile. "If I look pretty it's because I'm so happy to see you."

  He clasped her right hand. "Hurry. I can't wait to take the grand tour."

  She began honking the horn when she was only halfway down the lane. By the time she braked the car, Mrs. Dunne and Gayla were waiting expectantly on the veranda to see what all the commotion was about.

  "Good news," Schyler called out to them as she alighted and ran around the hood of the car. "Mark is here. And Daddy's coming home tomorrow."

  Mark placed his arm around her waist, not only in affec­tion, but as a means of holding Schyler earthbound as she ran up the steps. She was as exuberant as a child at her first circus.

  "You must be Mrs. Dunne," Mark said, addressing the housekeeper. "I'm the one you spoke with on the phone a while ago. As you said, I found Schyler at the hospital. Thank you."

  "Throw another chicken in the pot, Mrs. Dunne. There will be a guest for supper."

  "What a coincidence. I'm baking Cornish hens with wild rice stuffing and I just happen to have an extra one," she said, smiling at the attractive blond couple.

  "Good. Is the guest room still made up?"

  "I changed the linens today."

  "Then you go see to the extra hen. We'll get Mark's bag upstairs. He travels light." Mrs. Dunne went back inside. "Mark," Schyler said, "this is my dear friend Gayla Frances. Gayla, Mark Houghton."

  "I'm delighted to meet you, Miss Frances." Mark lifted her hand and kissed the back of it.

  "Pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Houghton," Gayla said, flustered. "Schyler has told me a lot about you."

  "All good I hope." He smiled disarmingly.

  Gayla looked nervously toward Schyler for help. She still found it difficult to make small talk, especially with men. She was spared having to when Tricia stepped out onto the veranda.

  "What in tarnation is—" She broke off and gaped at Mark, her eyes going wide with stupefaction and then nar­rowing with feminine approval. "Hi, y'all." He
r slow, honeyed accent matched her smile.

  "Hello," Mark said blandly. He was accustomed to hav­ing people stare at him. He wasn't obnoxiously vain, but he wasn't oblivious to his good looks. He knew that the way he looked had been either an asset or a hindrance, depending on the situation.

  Schyler conducted the introductions. Tricia laid a self- conscious hand at her neckline. "You should have told me, Schyler."

  "I didn't know. Mark's visit is a complete and delightful surprise."

  "I hope it's not an inconvenience," he said to Tricia po­litely.

  "Oh, no, no. It's just that if I'd known we were going to have company, I would have dressed."

  "You look very attractive to me, Mrs. Howell."

  "Please call me Tricia." She glanced down at her de­signer dress with chagrin. "I just put this on to attend a meeting in town. I'll go call right now and tell them I'm not coming."

  "Not on my account, please."

  "Oh, I wouldn't hear of missing supper with you. Schyler's just raved about you so much," Tricia gushed breathlessly. "Excuse me while I change. Honey, would you bring up that dress I asked Mrs. Dunne to press for me?" She directed that to Gayla before disappearing through the screen door.

  "Tricia," Schyler called out in vexation.

  Gayla laid a hand on Schyler's arm and said, "It's all right. I was going upstairs anyway to check the guest room. You visit with Mr. Houghton."

  "But you are not Tricia's handmaiden. The next time she orders you to do something, tell her to go to hell."

  "I'll sell tickets to that," Gayla said, laughing good-naturedly as she went inside.

  "Lovely woman," Mark observed when Gayla was out of earshot. "Is she the one who—"

  "Yes." During one of their lengthy overseas calls, Schyler had told him about Gayla.

  "Hard to believe," he said, shaking his head. "You've worked wonders for her."

  "I've been her friend. She would have done the same for me."

  Mark faced her and ran his hand over her hair. His eyes were full of love and adoration. "Is that a habit of yours?"