Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  He had pushed himself away from the table and left the dining room before Rhoda came to her senses. She stum­bled from her chair and chased after him. She caught up with him in the den where he was calmly lighting his pipe. Before he could apply the match to the Med bowl, she caught his arm.

  "What do you mean, who my next lover is going to be?"

  Dale jerked his arm free, lit his pipe, and fanned out the match, meticulously dropping it in the ashtray, before giv­ing his wife his attention. "It's all over town that your most recent stud is humping the Crandall woman. Tough luck, Rhoda."

  "What does it mean?"

  "Humping? It means—"

  She punched him in the chest. "Stop it! You know what I meant. What does this mean to us? To your plans for the takeover of Belle Terre?"

  He glowered at her for striking him, but he puffed his pipe docilely. "Their affair falls right into place with my own plans. He might be nailing her, but he has an ulterior motive. There's bad blood between him and the Crandalls, having to do with his mother and Cotton I believe."

  Rhoda's spirits lifted marginally. She had cause to want the sky to fall on both Cash and Schyler. As Dale had said, it was all over town that they were sleeping together. Rhoda herself had heard it at a meeting of the Friends of the Library. Helping to spread the salacious tidings was Schyler's own sister. Tricia Howell had held court to an enthralled audience while she dragged Schyler's name through the muck.

  Oh, she had put on a great act, making her avid listeners drag the information out of her, bit by juicy bit. But once she'd confirmed the gossip, she said, "Everybody at Belle Terre is thoroughly disgusted. Cash is so trashy. I mean, think what his mama was."

  Rhoda wasn't fooled. Tricia was jealous of her older sister, and probably envious of her affair with Cash. The catty little bitch had then launched into a story about Schyler's life in London with a homosexual, while Rhoda sat and stewed in her own juice. Schyler Crandall was the reason behind Cash's peculiar switch in personality. He had dumped her for Schyler Crandall. For that, she'd pay them back in spades.

  "You can play one off the other," she suggested to Dale now.

  Dale stroked his wife's cheek affectionately. "You're a vicious bitch, my dear. Vicious, but so clever."

  "Is there anything I can do to help further things along?"

  "Thank you, but I have everything under control. I'm keeping a very close eye on the situation. I'm being kept well informed."

  "By someone you can trust, I hope."

  "By someone who stands to gain as much as we do."

  Rhoda laid her hands on his lapels and moved close to him, nuzzling his crotch with her middle. "Be sure to let me know if there's any way I can help you, darling."

  Dale set his pipe aside and reached for the 9y of his trousers. "Actually there is. It also might serve to improve your disposition."

  He pushed her to her knees, but she went willingly.

  The blast of a car horn woke Schyler up. She threw off the covers and ran out into the hall. Looking out the land­ing window, she saw Cash's pickup below. He was stand­ing in the wedge made by the open door,

  "Get dressed," he shouted up to her. "We've got a prob­lem."

  "What?"

  "I'll tell you on the way."

  She made it downstairs within minutes. Tossing her shoes in first, she jumped into the cab of his pickup. "You certainly raised a ruckus inside this house. I hope this is important."

  "A chain on one of the rigs busted. Both bolsters gave way under the pressure. We've got a helluva log spill out on Highway Nine. I called out a crew. They're working to clear the road now."

  "Was anybody hurt?"

  "No."

  "Thank God." If the accident hadn't occurred so early in the morning, when the highway wasn't busily traveled, it very well could have cost lives. Schyler shuddered to think of the consequences. "You had a rig loaded this early in the morning?"

  "I've got every man putting in extra hours. A team comes on as soon as it gets light. We've got less than a week to get the rest of that order to Endicott's, remember?"

  "And if we don't get the mess on the highway cleared up, a whole crew won't be free to cut today."

  "That's right. Every hour counts." Cash was driving the pickup with no regard for traffic laws or speed regulations.

  "How long do you think it will take?"

  "I don't know." He glanced across at her. "I should have told you to dress in jeans. You might end up lumberjacking today."

  "Gladly, skirt or not. We've got to get that timber cut while the weather holds out." Gnawing the inside of her jaw in vexation, she muttered, "Why did the blasted chain have to break now?"

  "It didn't." Schyler looked at him in surprise. "It was sawed through," Cash told her. "Clean as a whistle. The truck had no more than pulled onto the highway than the logs started rolling off."

  "Cash, are you sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  "Who did it?"

  "How the hell should I know?"

  "Who was driving?"

  He named the man and shook his head firmly. "He's been with the company for years. Thinks Cotton Crandall hung the moon."

  "But what about Cotton Crandall's daughter? What does he think of her?"

  He turned to her with a leering smile. "Sure you want to hear it word for word?"

  The way he asked made her certain she didn't want to know. "He's loyal?"

  "Loyal as they come."

  "What about the others on that crew?"

  She gave him time to run through the list of names men­tally. "I'd trust any of them with my life. What would be a logger's motivation to deliberately screw things up? He would lose his job permanently if Crandall Logging goes out of business."

  "Not if he were bribed with a large amount of money."

  "Sudden riches would be a dead giveaway. The traitor would never survive the others' revenge. None of them would be stupid enough to try it. Besides, they're as loyal to each other as they are to your daddy."

  "An independent?"

  "Again, what's his motivation? You've created an ac­tive, local market. He's making more profit because his hauling expenses are reduced."

  "But you still think it was sabotage?"

  "Don't you?"

  "Jigger?" she asked. They stared at each other, knowing the answer.

  That was the last quiet moment they had for the next several hours. A state trooper was already on the scene when Cash and Schyler arrived. He was engaged in a heated argument with the logging crew.

  Cash shouldered his way through. "What's going on?"

  The trooper turned around. "You in charge?"

  "I am."

  "I'm gonna ticket you, mister. This rig was overloaded."

  "Find me one that isn't."

  "Well you got caught," the trooper said in a syrupy voice.

  "A chain busted."

  "Because you were overloaded. And just because every­body else overloads doesn't make it right. I'll make an example out of you." He took a citation pad out of Ms pocket. "While I'm doing it, tell your driver to get his rig off the road."

  As it was, the trailer rig and the logs were blocking both lanes of the two-lane state highway. "Look," Cash said, with diminishing patience, "we can't just scoot that timber aside. It's got to be reloaded onto another trailer."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. We'll have to scare up a loader that's not in use and get another rig out here. It'll take awhile. They're not built for speed."

  "We can't shut down this highway. You'll have to do that at night."

  "I'm afraid that's out of the question. I wouldn't risk the lives of my men by having them work after dark."

  At the sound of the feminine voice, the trooper spun around. He gave her a once-over that was calculated to intimidate. "Who are you?"

  "Schyler Crandall."

  The name worked like a splash of water on a growing fire. "Oh, Ms. Crandall, ma'am," he stammered, tipping his hat, "well I was
just telling your man here—"

  "I heard what you told him. It's unacceptable." The star­tled trooper opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say a word Schyler went on. "I suggest a compro­mise. Could you keep open the east-bound lane and close only the west-bound? That might slow traffic down, but it will slow down because of gawking drivers anyway. Hav­ing only one lane closed wouldn't stop traffic and it would be a tremendous help to us. I think we can move all our equipment in and work from one side of the road. We could get this cleared much sooner and that would be to everyone's advantage. Am I right?"

  "Am I right?" Cash mimicked her moments later, flut­tering his eyelashes.

  "You weren't getting anywhere with him," she said. "It was a macho, Mexican standoff. What was I supposed to do?"

  "Well, a blow job might have done the trick quicker. As it is, what you did worked okay."

  She gave him a fulminating look, but he missed it. He was already stalking away from her, issuing orders. Though it seemed like little was being done at any given time and confusion reigned, one by one the immense pine logs were lifted by crane and swung from the highway to the trailer rig. Cash himself sat in the knuckle boom and operated the loader. He carefully chose each log before loading it and stacked them all to achieve the perfect bal­ance.

  The accident did stop traffic, but it was the fault of rub­bernecked drivers and not Crandall Logging. By mid- morning the state trooper was literally eating out of Schyler's hand since she brought him a doughnut when she catered a snack to the crew assisting Cash.

  "Thanks," Cash said curtly as he opened the soda Schyler handed him. Unlike the others, who were taking a ten-minute break, lounging on the shoulder of the highway in the shade of trees, Cash was checking the bolsters and chains on the rig that had arrived to replace the damaged one. He drank the cold drink in one long swallow. "Wish it was a beer," he said, handing Schyler the empty can.

  "I'll buy you a case of it if you make up this morning's quota before dark."

  Staring her down, he grimly pulled on his beaten leather gloves and put the hard hat back on his head. Turning away from her, he shouted, "All right, up off your asses. This isn't a goddamn picnic. Back to work." The loggers grum­bled, but they complied with his orders. Schyler had seen only one other man who commanded both obedience and respect from his crews—Cotton.

  As the morning progressed, the heat became unbearable. Waves of it shimmered up off the pavement. The humidity was high; there wasn't a breath of air. The men removed their shirts when they became sodden and plastered to their backs. Handkerchiefs were used as sweatbands beneath hard hats. The state trooper kept his uniform intact, but large rings of perspiration stained his shirt beneath his arms. Frequently he removed his hat to mop his forehead and face. Schyler stayed busy at the bed of Cash's pickup dispensing ice water.

  He never took a break, so she carried a cup of water out to him. He put a chunk of ice in his mouth and poured the water over his head. It dribbled off his head and shoulders and through his chest hair. His discarded shirt had been tucked into his waistband. It hug over his hips like a breechcloth.

  "You shouldn't be out here," he said after giving her a critical look. "You'll cook. The tip of your nose is already sunburned."

  "I'm staying," she replied staunchly. She wouldn't des­ert her men.

  But as she walked back to the pickup, she pulled the tail of her blouse from the damp waistband of her skirt. Sweat trickled between her breasts and behind her knees. Her hair felt hot and heavy on her neck. Luckily she found a rubber band in her purse and used it to hold together a wide single braid. She'd never felt grittier or more uneasy. Even after gathering her hair off her neck, it continued to prickle with sensations that were so unpleasant as to be uncomfortable, almost as though someone had her in the cross hairs. Slowly, warily, she turned her head and looked toward the woods behind her.

  Jigger Flynn was standing partially hidden behind the trunk of a pecan tree. He was staring at her, clearly laugh­ing to himself.

  Schyler sucked in a quick breath of stark fear, though she retained enough control over her reaction not to let Jigger see it. His malice toward her was palpable, but Schyler held his stare. His eyes were so small and so deeply embedded that she couldn't really distinguish them. It was his overall expression that conveyed his silent mes­sage of vengeance. He was mocking her, gloating over the havoc she was sure he had caused. He was daring her to confront him and warning her that if she did, he would retaliate. This was only a mild example of the cruelty of which he was capable.

  She briefly considered running to the trooper and point­ing out Jigger as the one responsible for the log spill, but she vetoed it as a futile idea. Jigger was an adroit liar; he would only deny the charge and produce an alibi. She needed proof.

  As for alerting Cash, he already knew that Jigger was the most likely culprit and had made no effort to go after him. She doubted he would.

  Jigger seemed to discern her dilemma because he smiled. The devil's face couldn't look any more sinister than that smile. Schyler actually shuddered, as though the evil he embodied were passing through her body. She felt it as an assault and physically reacted to it.

  Panicked, she spun around. She opened her mouth to summon Cash, but she realized he was involved in loading the last log onto the rig. The trooper was speaking into the microphone of his patrol car radio. She was alone. She had to deal with her fear of Jigger Flynn by herself. She had to face him.

  Drawing a deep breath, she turned around to confront him, but there was nothing beneath the pecan tree except its branches and their leaves, dropping in the heat. All Schyler saw were shadows and dappled sunlight. Jigger Flynn had disappeared without a sound through the tall, dry grass. It was as if hell had opened up and taken him home.

  Schyler was brought around by the cheer that went up from the men as the last log was placed on the rig and the load was secured.

  "Get that rig unloaded at the landing and then bring it back to the site," Cash shouted to the driver as he ran toward his pickup. To the other men he said, "Hitch a ride on the loader. I'll meet you at the site after I drop Schyler off. When I get there I want to see trees dropping like whores' panties."

  He jumped into the cab of his truck. "Get in," he barked at Schyler, who was still standing and trembling with fear. She got in. Cash slipped the truck into first gear and pulled out onto the highway. As they drove past the trooper, Schyler waved her thanks at him.

  "Did you two make a date?" Following so closely on the heels of seeing Jigger, his acerbity was too much for her nerves.

  "Do you care?"

  "Damn right." His arm shot across the seat and his hand plunged between her thighs. He squeezed her possessively. "This is mine until I get through with it, understand?"

  Enraged, Schyler removed his hand, throwing it away from her. "Keep your hands off me. And while you're at it, go to hell."

  "What would you do without me if I did?"

  She averted her head and didn't look at him again. As soon as the pickup came to a stop on the other side of the Laurent Bayou bridge, she bolted out the passenger door. Cash was hot on her trail and caught up with her at the door of the office. He spun her around and, pressing her shoulders between his hands, drew her against his bare, damp chest. He kissed her hard enough to take away her breath.

  His tongue ground its way between her unwilling lips. Schyler's resistance slipped a notch, then snapped. He tasted like salty, sweaty, unrefined, fearless man. Feeling a desperate need for a mighty warrior's protection, she greedily kissed him back.

  As suddenly as he had grabbed her, he pushed her away and released her. "I warned you that I was never kind to women. Don't expect me to be any different with you."

  He drove off, leaving a cloud of white powdery dust swirling around her.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Schyler watched until the lights of the caboose disap­peared in the tunnel of trees. Wearily pushing back a wispy strand of hair
that had escaped her clumsy braid, she turned around, but instantly stopped short.

  Cash was leaning against the exterior wall of the office. She hadn't known he was there, though she should have smelled the smoke from his cigarette. It was dangling pre­cariously from the comer of his lips. His shirt was unbut­toned. He had his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his jeans.

  "Well, we did it," Schyler said. "We recovered the pro­duction time we lost this morning."

  "Oui."

  "Several times today I doubted that we would."

  He took one last drag on the cigarette before flicking the butt into the gravel bed between the train tracks. "I never doubted it."

  "Thank the men for me."

  "One of the drivers brought back word to the site that you mentioned a bonus."

  "I did."

  "They'll hold you to it."

  "They'll get it. As soon as I get a check from Endicott and the bank note is paid in full."

  "You owe me a case of beer."

  "Is tomorrow soon enough?"

  "Fine."

  She entered the landing office by the back door. She didn't sit down behind the desk, fearing that if she did, she would lay her head on top of it and fall asleep right there. Instead she switched off the lamp, picked up her purse, and made her way toward the front entrance.

  "You still mad at me?" Cash followed her out, making certain the door was locked behind them.

  "Why should I be mad?"

  "Because I don't court you with flowers and presents."

  She turned to face him. "Do you think I'm that shallow? That silly? If you gave me flowers I'd know you were mocking me, not courting me. All that aside, I don't want to be courted by you. By anybody."

  "Then why are you mad?"

  "I'm not."

  Schyler headed toward her car, only to realize that her car was at Belle Terre. She reversed her direction. Cash caught her arm. "Where're you going?"

  "To call Ken to come pick me up."

  "Get in the truck. I'm taking you home."

  "I—"

  "Get in the truck, dammit."

  Schyler knew that it would be lunacy to stand there and fight with him when she felt this tired and this grimy. It was grossly unfair of a man to engage a woman in an argument when a hard day's work had left him looking ruggedly appealing and left her looking like hell. If she'd had access to a lipstick and a hairbrush, then maybe she would have stayed to fight. As it was, the deck was stacked against her. She was too exhausted to think, much less argue with him. She got in his pickup.