Free Slow Heat in Heaven by Sandra Brown

Laurent Bayou bridge. The road came to a dead end in front of Crandall Logging.
    It was Saturday afternoon. The landing was deserted. No one was working in the yard or on the loading platforms that lined the railroad tracks. The rigs were parked beneath the enormous shed, their trailers folded up and riding piggyback on the cabs. The air wasn't punctuated by the racket of loggers hauling the timber from the surrounding forests. There was no sound of machinery, no clank of metal wheels on the rails. Except for a few chirping birds, everything was still and silent.
    She left her car door open and went toward the small, square, frame building that housed the office. The key that was still on her key ring fit the lock. It hadn't been changed in six years. The door swung open and she stepped inside.
    It was stifling. She left the door open behind her. The late afternoon sun cast her shadow across the dull, scarred floor and over the top of Cotton's desk. Unfiled paperwork and unopened correspondence littered it. It always had. He would procrastinate doing the clerical chores for months. Schyler would catch up with them during school holidays and summer vacations.
    She crossed to the desk, picked up the telephone and dialed the number that was engraved on her memory forever.
    "Belle Terre."
    "Hello, Mrs. Graves, this is Schyler. I won't be home for a while. Don't hold dinner for me."
    The housekeeper appeared not to have any curiosity and nothing to say; the call was completed within fifteen seconds. Replacing the telephone receiver, Schyler gazed about her. The windows overlooking the railroad tracks needed washing. They were without adornment of any kind, even Venetian blinds. Cotton had always insisted on an unobstructed view. He wanted to know what was going on at any given time.
    Schyler ran her fingertip along the windowsill and picked up an inch of dust. She should arrange for someone to come in and clean. Returning to the desk, she stood behind the chair and laid her hands on the tall, tufted back.
    Cotton's chair.
    Years of use had made the brown leather glove-soft and pliable beneath her squeezing fingers. She closed her eyes. Hot, salty tears welled up behind her eyelids as she recalled the times she had sat in Cotton's lap in this chair, listening patiently while he explained the different types of wood and to which lumberyard or paper mill the timber would be shipped.
    He had been delighted with his attentive pupil. Tricia hated the landing. She called it a dirty, noisy ol' place and had grown sullen if she ever had to go near it. Macy hadn't cared about the business, even though it had originally belonged to her family. Cotton had audaciously changed its name. No sooner had Mr. Laurent been buried than Cotton set himself up as sole owner and operator.
    Macy hadn't cared about much at all, not her family's business, not her husband, not even the two daughters she had adopted out of desperation when she learned that she was barren and could not give Cotton the offspring he desired.
    Macy had seen to it that her two daughters were better dressed than any other girls in the parish. They had been educated in an elite private school. Parties held in their honor were more lavish than any the old-timers could remember. She had provided their material needs, but she had neglected their emotional ones. If it hadn't been for Cotton, Schyler would never have known parental love.
    But he no longer loved her.
    She opened her eyes and wiped the tears from them. Suddenly noticing the long shadow stretched across the untidy desk, her head snapped up. She gave a soft gasp that seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness. Then, recognizing the man indolently leaning against the doorjamb, she frowned.

Chapter Eight
     
    "I wish to heaven you'd stop sneaking up on me. It's giving me the creeps."
    "What are you crying about?"
    "Cotton."
    Cash's body tensed. His brows formed a low shelf over his enigmatic eyes. "He died?"
    Schyler shook her