Anything for You (16 page)

At a furtive knock on the back door, Gypsy frowned. No one knocked on doors in a logging camp. She opened it, and her eyes widened in surprise.

“Nissa!”

Dressed in a flamboyant gown of royal blue, Nissa Jensen did not smile. “Can I come in?”

“Nissa, I—” Farley had rigid rules that the jacks were not to have visitors from the Porcelain Feather Saloon, and she was unsure if that edict extended to the kingbee cook and the brothel's madam.

“Gypsy, we've got to talk. Just you and me. Heard you've been sending your flunkeys out at midday, so I decided this was the time.”

She stepped back to allow Nissa in. When Nissa glanced over her shoulder, Gypsy realized she still held the door open. She closed it and motioned for Nissa to sit on a narrow bench.

“Don't stare, Gypsy,” she chided with a throaty laugh as she brushed the modest coat that closed at her throat. “I'm different away from work just as you're different when you take off that apron.”

“I don't get to do that often.” She smiled.

“You should. Glenmark will work you into an early grave if you let him.” Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a cigar and lit it.

“No smoking in the cookhouse,” Gypsy said as she put a cup of coffee on the table for Nissa.

“Those rules are for the jacks. What's Farley going to do? Tell me to pack my turkey sack and walk?” Her amusement vanished as a haunted expression filled her faded eyes. “Gypsy, I need this cheroot now. After what happened last night …”

“What happened last night?”

“Do you have something stronger than swamp water?” She pushed the cup aside. “I need whiskey.”

“Farley allows no liquor in the camp.”

She snorted and picked up the cup. “How can you live with all these stupid rules?”

“You have your own rules at the saloon.” Folding her hands on the flour-coated oilcloth, Gypsy asked, “What happened last night?”

Nissa took a deep puff on the noxious cigar and followed that with a long swig of the coffee. Sighing, she balanced the cup in one hand and the cheroot in the other. “One of my girls was murdered.”

“Murdered?” Gypsy choked on the word. When a cool hand patted her clasped fingers, she raised her gaze to meet Nissa's eyes.

“Should've told you better,” Nissa said, her smile sad.

“How?”

“Got no idea. There's no way to ease such news.”

Gypsy shook her head. Fighting the coughs tickling the back of her throat, she choked out, “No, I mean how was she murdered?”

“Smothered by a pillow. Right in her crib. That's why we didn't realize Lolly was dead until this morning.”

“Lolly? Lolly Yerkes?”

“Why—oh, that's right. You had a run-in with her at the Porcelain Feather.” She took another draw on her cigar. The gray-blue smoke surrounded her, but could not hide the pain pulling her lips into a straight line. “Yesterday was Wednesday. The men aren't supposed to be out in the middle of the week.”

“But there's no one else within a dozen miles.”

“That's why I came to speak to you, Gypsy. Your crew sleeps in the bunkhouse, don't they?”

“All except the one who has to keep the fire up in the stove.”

“Who was that last night?”

Her fingers tightened around her cup. Not to speak the truth was insane, especially when it might lead to the identification of a murderer. “Adam Lassiter watched the kitchen last night,” she whispered.

Nissa cursed through the malodorous smoke. “I had hoped I could point to the man here as the murderer, but it can't be him.”

“Why not?”

“That's a strange question to hear from a woman who was cozying up with Adam a few weeks ago.” A flash of a wicked grin lit her eyes. “Lovers' quarrel, Gypsy? Think twice before you get rid of him. He may be limping around now, but Adam Lassiter is just what you need.”

“Adam and I haven't had an argument.”

She tapped ashes into her cup. “No matter. It couldn't be Lassiter. It's a good two miles between here and the saloon. With that cast, he would have had to start before you finished up here and wouldn't be back yet.”

Gypsy pretended to listen as Nissa continued. What the madam said was true. Adam could not have managed the long walk through the heavy snow with his cast. She clenched her hands in her lap until her whitened knuckles protested.

Adam was lying about his ankle, but she did not believe he had killed Lolly. Murder was the act of a madman. Whatever else Adam might be, he was sane.

When Gypsy coughed, knife-sharp pains cutting through her chest, Nissa demanded, “How long have you been sounding like that?”

“A while. It'll go away.”

“Sounds bad.”

Although she wanted to retort that the cough's sound was not as horrible as its pain, she said, “I'll be fine.”

“You should be in bed.”

“Nissa, I can take care of myself! I—” She pressed her hands to her chest as more coughs refuted her words.

Nissa went to the stove. She poured a cup of tea from the kettle. Pulling down two boxes from the shelves, she mixed a pinch of the ingredients into the cup, and placed it in front of Gypsy. “Drink it.”

Gypsy's hands trembled so, she was afraid she would not be able to lift the cup. She let the oddly fragrant steam wash over her. It eased the tautness of her throat, and she was able to breathe. She took a sip and gagged.

“What is it?”

“Drink it,” repeated Nissa. “It's good for you.”

Grimacing, she tried again. Her stomach threatened to revolt. “I can't!”

“Peppermint tea and garlic is my granny's sure-enough recipe for getting rid of a cold on the chest.”

“Peppermint and garlic?” Before Nissa could answer, more coughs overwhelmed her. “The flavor may kill me.”

“Drink it all.” Nissa slipped on her coat. “I'm going to bend Farley's ear. He's got to know what's happened. The girls are afraid. They want to leave.”

Gypsy stood, keeping a hand on the table to steady her wobbly knees. “Will you go?”

She hesitated. “I like the money I make, but I like being alive more. The season's almost over. The jacks will be able to visit us in Saginaw when the log drive is done.”

“If there's anything we can do to help, let me know.”

Nissa went out the main door. Gypsy forced her rubbery legs to carry her to the window. The madam was ignoring the men who stopped to watch her cross the camp, but having Nissa Jensen here was sure to create all kinds of rumors.

Gypsy leaned her shoulder against the wall and took a deep breath. Keeping the kitchen running smoothly and food on the tables in the dining room would prevent the loggers from overreacting.

She set the soup pot on the stove. Within minutes, she had chicken broth bubbling, and she began to collect the ingredients for pies. She was getting the salt box from the rafters when the door opened and the flunkeys blew in on a puff of cold wind and their laughter.

“Sit down,” she ordered before they could greet her. Putting salt into the soup pot, she stirred it.

Knocking snow from their boots, the men sat on the benches around the table. She saw the uneasy glances they exchanged.

She continued to stir the soup. “Nissa Jensen just came here with the news that one of the girls was murdered last night.”

A jumble of questions was shot at her, but Bert's voice was loudest. “'Oo was it?”

“Lolly.”

Oscar hid his face in his hands. Pain swelled through her as, too late, she recalled how Bert had accused him of being smitten with the prostitute.

Looking from him to the soup she could not let burn, she faltered. When a strong hand covered hers on the ladle, she stared at Adam in silence. His face was as frigid as the rocks along the river and as roughly sculpted, but she saw no surprise.

Tell me the truth. Tell me the murderer can't be you. Tell me why you're lying to me.

“Help him, Gypsy,” he urged. “I'll watch the soup.”

She nodded. When she put her hands on Oscar's too skinny shoulders, he threw his arms around her waist and pressed his face against her apron. His sobs burst straight from his gut. Not the soul-wrenching weeping of an adult, not the pitiful keening of a heartbroken child, but a combination of both. She stroked his hair. Bert, Hank, and Per lowered their eyes as if ashamed to show their grief.

Again she glanced at Adam. The compassion for Oscar on his surprisingly candid features shocked her. Wanting to demand why he refused her the same, she bent and gently brought Oscar to his feet.

She hated what she had to say, but a mountain of work awaited them. “Hank, take Oscar to the bunkhouse. We can cope for an hour or two without him.”

The obese man nodded and put his arm around the lad. As soon as the door closed behind them, she told the others to unload the sled. She went to the stove where Adam still stirred the soup.

“Adam,” she said as she took the spoon, “you should know that Nissa came here expecting to accuse the man who had the stove watch.”

“Only expecting to?”

“Yes, only.” She let the fragrant steam hide her face in a heated flush. “When she discovered you had the watch, she knew a man with a broken ankle wouldn't be able to go that distance in the amount of time between when I go to sleep and wake up.”

“Do I owe you a thank-you for defending me?”

She started to face him, but his rigid hands on her shoulders warned he was as distressed by the tidings of murder as she was. “No, I didn't defend you. There was no need.”

“But someone murdered her.”

“Yes.”

Gently he turned her to him. “Gypsy, be careful.”

“Me?” She almost laughed, then realized he was serious. The fervor in his blue eyes could not be feigned. “Why should I be worried?”

“Bert and Oscar were pretty upset about her last week.”

“You think one of them killed her?” As cold flooded her, she shook herself out of his hands. “That's ridiculous! I spoke to them here last night.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes, both of them. Are you disappointed, Adam, that one of the flunkeys isn't a murderer?”

He swore under his breath. “The sooner you understand how dangerous this could be for you, the sooner you'll realize this isn't a joke.”

“I still don't understand why you think I should be worried.” She was inured to such fear. She tried to ignore the thought that she might have become too accustomed to it.

“Here's why.” He lifted her hand and slapped something on it.

She stared at a small carving knife. Looking at an empty slot on the wall where the knives were kept, she said, “I don't need this.”

“Apparently someone else didn't need it, either, judging from where I found it.”

“Where?”

He smiled grimly. “Outside the door this morning. Someone took that knife last night. Not only did he take it, but he came back with it. Why?”

With a shiver, she walked to the storage rack and put the knife in its place. “I have no idea.”

“None? Last night, you were as skittish as a rabbit with a hound on its tail. What's going on here?”

“I could ask you the same!” she shot back. “You're out wandering around in the middle of the night after some phantom. Now word comes that a woman's been murdered. Are they connected somehow?”

He shook his head. “You're asking the wrong man, Gypsy. I have no idea what's going on.” Crossing the room, he grasped her elbows. “All I know is this is just the beginning of trouble.”

“I agree,” she whispered, afraid to speak the truth aloud.

He brought her eyes to meet his. Her heart faltered on its next beat. Anger, frustration, and curiosity burned in his eyes, but none of them were aimed at her.
Perhaps the curiosity,
she had to admit as his fingers splayed across her cheek.

She closed her eyes. In his arms, she found a sanity that was swiftly disappearing in the rest of her life. As his fingers sifted upward to tangle in her hair, she guided his mouth to hers. Once she had needed his kiss to help her forget past pain. No longer. She ached for that fiery caress.

His tongue outlined her hungry lips, teasing each eager inch, and she tasted the warmth within his mouth. His arms tightened around her as hers curved along his back.

Dancing together and away like two fencing masters, their mouths created a melody that could be heard in her depths. As his mouth glided along her neck, his fingers stroked her side, outlining her with a flush of delight. Her leg rubbed against his as he pressed her to the wall. Each silken hair on his skin was an individual caress, threatening to sweep her mind from her.

She moaned his name when his fingers circled the curve of her breast. His other hand cupped her chin and tilted her head back. Letting his gaze hold her, she quivered before the onslaught of sensations she could no longer govern. His fingertip roved along her, tracing a path until she arched toward him.

When her hands stroked his chest, his heartbeat leaped. In the second before his mouth touched hers again, he whispered, “One other thing I know. I intend to stop this murderer before you can become his next victim.”

“Me?” she choked, torn from the pleasure by fear. “Why me?”

“You tell me.”

She pushed him away, aching anew that he would use his kisses to entice information from her. “
You
tell me. After all, having a murderer after me is your idea.”

His strong hands caught her and spun her back to him. The softness was gone from his face. “Ignore the facts, if you wish, Gypsy, but one woman is dead. Will you be next?”

CHAPTER TEN

Whistling a lighthearted melody did not lessen the predawn cold, but the tune cheered Adam as the icy wind slapped away the last remnants of sleep. It had been hard to rest in the aftermath of the murder at the Porcelain Feather Saloon.