Slow Heat in Heaven by Sandra Brown Read Free Book Online Page B

think so. I'm not sure. I ran."
    "Jesus."
    He started down the path again, walking more quickly now. The chorus of bullfrogs grew louder. Schyler recognized the willows, whose long, trailing branches bent toward the still, murky waters like a penitent paying homage. This branch of the bayou was distributary, drawing water out of the wider, freer flowing Laurent Bayou. It was a narrow creek. The waters flowed sluggishly if at all, making it appear almost stagnant.
    There was a pirogue lying half in, half out of the water. Agilely, Cash put one foot in it and leaned down to deposit Schyler in the narrow, canoe-type boat. Taking a book of matches from the breast pocket of his shirt, he struck one and lit a kerosene lantern. The yellow light made his eyes appear as sinister as the wildcats that prowled the swamps. He blew out the match and turned up the lantern.
    "What were you doing here?" she asked with a detached curiosity.
    "Hauling in the day's catch." He nodded toward a net trap that was partially submerged in the shallow water. Several d-»' *n red swamp crayfish were squirming inside.
    "You seem to have a propensity for trespassing where you don't belong."
    He didn't defend himself. "Here, have a drink."
    A pint bottle of bourbon was lying in the bottom of the pirogue. He twirled off the cap and passed the bottle to her. She regarded it blankly. "Go on," he said impatiently. "It's not moonshine and it's not bootleg. I bought it this afternoon from a respectable liquor store."
    "I'd rather not."
    He leaned forward, his face looking satanic in the lantern light. "When you plowed into me you looked like you'd seen a ghost. I don't have any crystal glasses or silver ice buckets like up at Belle Terre. I'm sure it's not as fancy a cocktail as you're used to, but it'll give you a good, swift kick in the gut, which is what you need to stop your shakes. Now take a drink, goddammit."
    Not liking anything he had said, liking less the imperious way he'd said it, Schyler yanked the pint of liquor from him and tipped it to her mouth. Cotton had taught her to drink, just like he'd taught her to do everything else. But he'd taught her to drink like a lady, in a manner Macy had approved of. The hefty swig of bourbon she drew out of Cash Boudreaux's pint scalded her throat and every inch of her esophagus along its way to her stomach where it exploded with the impetus of a dying sun.
    She gave a hoarse, unladylike cough, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and passed the bottle to him. He took it from her and, staring at her with amusement, drank from it himself. "More?"
    "No, thank you."
    He took another drink before recapping the bottle and tossing it into the bottom of the pirogue. He climbed in and crouched down in front of Schyler. "Did he get you anywhere beside the arm?"
    Schyler gasped when he reached out and encircled her wrist, drawing her arm closer to the lantern. His touch elicited a tingle, but what alarmed her was that her arm was oozing blood from several ugly scratches. "I didn't realize. My God."
    His fingers were warm, strong, and gentle as he probed the wounds, examining them carefully. "What did it look like?"
    "The dog?" Schyler shivered. "Horrible. Ugly. Like a boxer. Sort of like a bulldog."
    "Must've been one of Jigger's pit bulls." Cash's gaze rose to meet hers. "You were lucky to get off with no more than this. What'd you do to it?"
    "Nothing!" she cried. "I was walking, through my own woods, and suddenly it sprang out of nowhere."
    "You didn't provoke it?"
    The dubious inflection in his voice made her angry. She jerked her arm free and surged to her feet. "I'm going to the hospital. Thank you—"
    Cash shot up and loomed above her. His splayed hand landed solidly in the center of her chest and gave a slight push. "Sit down."

Chapter Six
     
    Her bottom landed hard on the rough seat that spanned the floor of the canoe. Incredulous, she stared up at him. "I'll take care of you," he said.
    Schyler wasn't