Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  "Thanks, but I need to get to the office." Sometime dur­ing the night, in her subconscious, a thought concerning their last shipment to Endicott's had struck her. Luckily she remembered it this morning and was eager to discuss it with Cash.

  "Well if you ask me, you're working too hard."

  "I didn't ask," she retorted, but kindly, as she winked at the housekeeper on her way out. As she went past the par­lor doors, she saw Gayla in there dusting the books on the shelves. "Gayla, I asked you to catalog those books, not dust them. That's what I pay Mrs. Dunne to do."

  "I don't mind. I ran out of chores. I feel guilty just sitting around mooching off you."

  "You're not mooching." Schyler smiled up at Gayla, who was perched on a ladder. She got only a faint smile from Gayla in return. "Is something wrong? No more voo­doo dolls, I hope."

  "No." Distractedly Gayla gazed through the wide win­dows. The expansive lawn, full of sunlight and serenity, hardly looked threatening. "It's just that I. . . I. . ." She sighed and shook her head in self-derision. "Nothing."

  "What?"

  Gayla made a helpless gesture with her dust cloth. "The yard looks so peaceful and harmless now. But when it gets dark outside, I have the eerie feeling that something or someone is out there watching us."

  "Gayla," Schyler chided gently.

  "I know it's stupid. I jump at my own shadow."

  "That's understandable after all you've been through. The doll was a very real threat. I was reluctant to call the sheriff's office to come out and investigate, but if you want me to I will."

  "No," Gayla exclaimed. "Don't do that. Besides it wouldn't do any good. The sheriff is a friend of Jigger's."

  "Then you're certain he was responsible?"

  "He probably paid somebody to put it in my room."

  "I'm sure he just wanted to scare you. I doubt it'll go any further than that. For all his chicanery, Jigger Flynn wouldn't dare set foot on Belle Terre."

  "I hope not." There wasn't much conviction behind Gayla's voice.

  Schyler lowered herself to the padded arm of an easy chair. "That's not all, is it?"

  "No."

  "Tell me."

  Gayla climbed down the ladder and dropped her cloth into a basket of cleaning supplies. Her narrow shoulders lifted and fell on a deep sigh. "I don't know if I can pin­point what's wrong, Schyler."

  "Try."

  "You're too busy to listen to my whining."

  "I've got time. What's on your mind?"

  Taking a moment to collect her thoughts, Gayla said, "I've just been wondering what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. I don't have enough college to get a good job. I'm too old to go back to school. Even if I wasn't, I couldn't afford it." She raised troubled eyes. "What is there for me to do? Where should I go? How will I live?"

  Schyler rose and embraced her fondly. "Don't rush yourself to make a decision. Things will get sorted out in time. Something will turn up. In the meantime you have a home here."

  "I can't go on living off you, Schyler."

  "It makes me angry when you say that."

  She tilted Gayla's head up. Looking into Gayla's eyes was like looking into twin cups of chicory coffee. They were that large, that dark, that fluid. They should be laughing; instead they were full of despair.

  It was disappointing to Schyler that Jimmy Don Davison hadn't responded to that letter she had mailed him in prison. She had hoped that once he knew Gayla had left Jigger in fear of her life, he would contact her. She had gambled on him being curious about his lost love at the very least. Obviously he wasn't.

  A forgiving letter from Jimmy Don would be like a tonic to Gayla. It would imbue her with optimism for the future. Schyler had no way of knowing how Jimmy Don felt about his former sweetheart, but surely once he was acquainted with the circumstances, he wouldn't hold Gayla's recent past against her.

  "It's too pretty a day to worry about the future," Schyler said softly. "I don't want to think about you leaving Belle Terre. It makes me sad. I don't know what I would have done without your friendship these past few weeks."

  Gayla's eyes cleared of misery, but they flashed with anger. "Tricia's been so hateful to you. How do you stand it?"

  "I try to ignore the swipes she takes at me."

  "I don't see how you can. And her husband just stands there and lets her get by with it." Gayla shook her head. With a wisdom beyond her years that was probably inher­ited from Veda, she added, "There's something wrong there."

  "Wrong where?"

  "With them."

  "Like what?"

  "I'm not sure. They're sneaky. Both of them. They carry on whispered telephone conversations. Are you aware of that? When I walk past, they hang up, or start talking real loud, like I'm too stupid to tell that they're faking it." She looked at Schyler worriedly. "I wouldn't trust them if I were you."

  Those furtive telephone conversations were probably being placed to realtors. Gayla didn't know about the Ho- wells' plan to put Belle Terre up for sale. Schyler laughed off her warning. "I doubt they're plotting to smother me in my bed."

  "Mr. Howell hasn't got the balls. But she does. She hates you, Schyler. I don't know how two girls can be raised as sisters and turn out so differently."

  "We come from different stock."

  "Well I think Tricia is a bad seed. Mark my words."

  "She's just insecure about her self-worth." Gayla's intu­ition made Schyler more uneasy than she wanted to ac­knowledge. Still, and to Gayla's annoyance, she defended Tricia. "Mother ignored both of us, but Daddy made no secret of favoring me. Years of living with that turned Tri­cia sour."

  "I respect you for taking up for her. But don't give her your back."

  With that warning echoing in her ears, Schyler left Gayla in the parlor and headed toward the back of the house. She checked Cotton's room, but he wasn't there. She found him outside, sitting in a lawn chair and feeding shelled pecans to squirrels that ate the treats right out of his hand. When Schyler appeared, they scattered across the lawn and into the nearest trees.

  "Spoilsport," Cotton said, frowning at her.

  "Good morning to you, too." She leaned down and gave him a quick kiss before dropping into the chair beside his. "How are you this morning? I feel glorious." Pointing her toes far in front of her and reaching high over her head with both arms, she stretched luxuriously.

  "You should. You've slept away half the day."

  "Well after yesterday, I thought I deserved it."

  "Reckon you do. Quite a mess, wasn't it?"

  "How did you know?" He'd already been asleep when she came in last night.

  She followed his gaze down to the morning newspaper lying on the small table between their chairs. Even reading upside down, Schyler could see that the front page was dominated by an account of the Crandall Logging rig acci­dent. The accompanying picture featured Cash, standing astride one of the massive logs, overseeing the chore of clearing the highway.

  "Cash was right there in the thick of it, I see."

  Schyler knew better than to take her father's comment at face value, but she pretended to. "He's a born organizer. The other loggers would walk through a wall of fire for him."

  "Hmm." One of the squirrels had decided that Schyler posed no danger and had crept back for more nuts. Cotton leaned out of his chair and tossed it a pecan half.

  "Does Mrs. Dunne know you've got those? Pecans that pretty should be going into a pie."

  "Don't change the subject," Cotton said crossly.

  "I didn't know there was one," Schyler fired right back.

  "Why didn't you tell me about this accident?"

  "I haven't seen you since the accident."

  "Why didn't you ask for my advice when Boudreaux came roaring up here yesterday morning?"

  "I'm sorry. Did he disturb you?"

  "He's always disturbed me."

  She ignored that and answered his original question with forced calm. "I didn't tell you about it or ask your advice b
ecause frankly I didn't think about it."

  "I'll have you know, young lady, that I'm still the head of this goddamn company," he bellowed.

  "But you're temporarily out of commission."

  "So you've turned the whole operation over to that Cajun bastard."

  "Now wait a minute, Daddy. I depend on Cash, yes, but I still make the decisions. On most of the major ones, I've consulted you. Yesterday was an exception. I had to act spontaneously. I didn't have time to weigh my options. There were no options."

  "You could have phoned. You could have kept me posted."

  "I could have, I suppose, but since your surgery I've tried to insulate you from the day-to-day hardships of run­ning the business."

  "Well don't do me anymore goddamn favors. I don't want to be insulated. I'll be insulated for a long time when they seal me in a friggin' casket. Don't rush it."

  It took an enormous amount of self-control for Schyler to remain silent and let that go by without comment. Like a catechism, she mentally recited all the reasons why she should overlook his unfair allegations. He wasn't to be ex­cited or upset. Stress of any kind could be dangerous, if not deadly. He was prone to depression and contrariness when his pride was in jeopardy.

  In a carefully regulated voice she said, "Now that you're obviously feeling so much stronger, I'll consult you on business matters. It was only out of consideration for your health that I hadn't before now."

  "That's bullshit." He jabbed a finger in her direction. "You didn't consult me because you've got Cash to talk to." A vein in his temple began to throb, but neither of them noticed. "Do the two of you talk shop in bed?"

  Schyler flinched guiltily. She stopped breathing for a moment. When her involuntary responses eventually took over again, she raised her chin a notch and bravely chal­lenged her father's censorious stare.

  "I'm a grown woman. I won't discuss my personal life with you."

  He banged his fist on the arm of his chair. "We're not talking about your personal life. You got passed over for your sister. She duped us all into believing Howell had knocked her up. You lived with a goddamn fairy for six years. After all that, why would I start caring about who you're screwing? I don't."

  "Then what are you shouting at me for?"

  He moved his face closer to hers. "Because this time your bedmate is Cash Boudreaux."

  "And that makes a difference?"

  "You're damn right it does. He's too close to my busi­ness, my home. Your affair with him affects everything I've worked my ass off for."

  "How?"

  "Because that Cajun bastard—"

  Schyler shot out of her chair and bore down on him. "Stop calling him that! He can't help being born illegiti­mate."

  Cotton flopped back in his chair and looked up at his daughter with disbelief. "God almighty. You're in love with Mm."

  Her face went blank. She continued staring at her father a few thudding heartbeats longer, then turned away. She braced her arms on the back of the chair she'd been sitting in, leaning against it for additional support.

  Cotton wasn't finished with her yet. He sat up straight and scooted to the edge of his seat. "You dare to defend that man to me. To me," He thumped his chest. Inside it, shooting pains were leaving fissions in the walls of his heart. He was too irate to notice. "Have you made the pitiful blunder of falling in love with that skirt chaser, with Cash Boudreaux?"

  She flung herself away from the chair and angrily con­fronted Cotton again. "Why not? You were in love with his mother."

  They glared at each other so hard that neither could stand die open animosity for long. They lowered their eyes simultaneously. "So you know," Cotton said after awhile.

  "I know."

  "Since when?"

  "Recently."

  "He told you?"

  "No, Tricia did."

  He sighed. "What the hell? I'm surprised you didn't know all along. Everybody else in the parish did." Cotton cracked another pecan, dug out the meat and passed it to an inquisitive and intrepid squirrel."I committed adultery with Monique for years. I made her an adulteress."

  "Yes."

  "And I would do it again." Father and daughter looked at each other. "Even if it meant burning in hell for eternity, I would love Monique Boudreaux again." He leaned back in his chair again and rested his head against the wicker. "Macy wasn't a. . . a warm woman, Schyler. She equated passion with a loss of self-control. She was incapable of feeling it."

  "Monique Boudreaux was?"

  A ghost of a smile lifted his pale lips. "Ah, yes," he breathed. "She was. She did everything passionately, laugh, scold, make love." Schyler watched his eyes be­come transfixed, as though he were looking into a mirror of memory, seeing a happier time. "She was a very beauti­ful woman."

  Schyler was amazed by the expression on his face. She'd never seen Cotton's features look that soft. His vulnerabil­ity affected her deeply. "I think Cash is a beautiful man."

  Instantaneously Cotton's expression changed again. It grew hard and ugly. His smiling lips turned downward with contempt. "He's done a real number on you, hasn't he? You actually trust him."

  "He's been invaluable to me. I depend on him. He's the most intelligent, instinctive forester around. Everybody says so."

  "Dammit, I know that," Cotton snarled. "I depend on his professional judgment, too, but I don't crawl into bed with him. I don't even turn my back on him for fear I'll get a knife in it."

  "Cash isn't like that," she said, wishing she believed it herself.

  "Isn't he? When he was telling you about Monique and me, did he mention all his threats?"

  "Threats?"

  "I see he didn't."

  "I know the two of you have had several vicious argu­ments. One being the night he brought me home from Thibodaux Pond. Remember that? It was right after Mama died."

  "I remember," he answered guardedly.

  "Cash helped me that night. He wasn't the one who plied me with beer. You unfairly blamed him for my con­dition."

  "Cash never does anything out of the goodness of his heart. He might not have been the one that got you drunk, but don't be misled into thinking he was concerned with your welfare."

  "What did the two of you argue about that night?"

  "I don't remember."

  He was lying, too, just as Cash had. "Monique?"

  "I don't remember. Probably. When Macy died, Cash demanded that I marry his mother."

  Schyler searched his face, looking for the soft expres­sion of love that had been there only moments ago. "Why didn't you, Daddy? If you were so in love with her, why didn't you marry her when Mama died?" Feeling guilty she asked, "Because of Tricia and me?"

  "No. Because of a pledge I had made Macy."

  "But she was dead."

  "That didn't matter. I'd given her my word. I couldn't marry Monique. She understood and was resigned to it. Cash wasn't."

  "Can you blame him? You made his mother's life hell. Did you know she had miscarried your child?"

  Cotton's eyes clouded with tears. "Damn him for telling you that."

  "Is it true?"

  "Yes. But I didn't know she was pregnant until after­wards. I swear to God I didn't."

  She believed him. He might have lied by omission, but he'd never told her a lie that was an outright contradiction to truth. "Mornque lived in a very gray area, as outcast of society. She couldn't even observe her religion because of her life with you."

  "It was her choice as much as mine to live as she did."

  "But when Mama died, when you had a chance to rectify that, you didn't."

  "I couldn't," he repeated on a shout. "I told Cash that. Now I'm telling you. I couldn't." Cotton paused to draw a deep breath. "That's when Cash swore on his mother's ro­sary that he would get vengeance. He accused me of mak­ing her a whore. He promised not to stop until he's brought ruination to me and to Belle Terre." He gasped for suffi­cient oxygen. "Why do you think a man with his expertise has hung 'round here all these yea
rs, living like white trash down there in that shanty on the bayou?"

  "I asked him that."

  "And what did he say?"

  "He said he had promised his mother on her deathbed that he would never leave Belle Terre as long as you were alive. She asked him to watch over you."

  That gave Cotton pause. For a moment, he stared sight­lessly at Schyler, then into near space. Finally, he shook his head stubbornly. "I don't believe that for a minute. He's been biding his time. Waiting like a panther about to pounce. You came back from England with sex-deprived gonads and bam!, he saw his opportunity to finally get his revenge. Because I was laid up, he had access to you that he'd never had before. He took full advantage, didn't he?"

  "No."

  "Didn't he?"

  "No!"

  Cotton's eyes narrowed to slits. "Didn't he seize a golden opportunity to pay me back for screwing his mother? Everybody around here knows how I feel about you, Schyler. The boy's not dense. If he wanted to fuck me real good, the best way he could do it was fuck the daughter I love best."

  Schyler crammed her fist against her lips and shook her head vehemently while tears of doubt filled her eyes.

  "He's as cunning as a swamp fox, Schyler," Cotton rasped. "Monique was proud. She never would take any money from me. They barely scraped by. Growing up as he did messed with Cash's mind. He's warped. He hates us.

  He has all Monique's charm, but none of her compassion or sweetness."

  Cotton wagged his finger at her in warning. "You cannot trust him. Do, and we're doomed. He'll do anything, say anything, to bring us down. Don't doubt that for a single instant."

  Schyler, unable to tolerate another word, turned and fled.

  Chapter Fifty

  It wasn't true, she told herself.

  By the time Schyler reached the landing office, how­ever, the doubts that Cotton had raised obscured her cer­tainty like a thundercloud blotting out the sun.

  She braked and shoved open the car door. Cash's pickup was parked beside one of the scales. He was here, not in the forest. She was glad she wouldn't have to chase him down. This confrontation couldn't wait. She wanted to know, and know immediately, that Cotton was wrong. She needed to know that she was right.