Anything for You (18 page)

Soon he understood what Per planned. Heavy stones which had been chipped out of the frozen ground were set to heat on the stove. Steam rose as ice seared on the cast iron. The soft hiss was the loudest sound in the room as the men worked in silence.

Per placed a large tub on the floor. When Bert and Oscar came in with buckets of water, the old man pointed that they should be placed next to the tub.

“Put a blanket under that tub,” Adam suggested so quietly that Gypsy's rasping breath could be heard over his words. “Otherwise, you'll scorch a hole right through the floor.”

Bert stepped aside as the other flunkeys rolled a heated rock into a small pail. When his eyes met Adam's, he looked away hastily and muttered, “Seems like one calamity after another 'ere lately.”

“Put your superstitions aside!” Adam snapped. “Gypsy brought this on herself by being as stubborn as a knot.”

“That's an awful thing to say.”

“It's the truth.” Adam watched the men place the rock carefully into the tub.

“Thought you'd 'ave more sympathy for 'er, what with you being so sweet on 'er and all.”

Per's warning of “Look out!” saved Adam from answering. Adam held his breath as the old man doused the heated rocks. Water sizzled into steam, obscuring the bed in a white fog. Per continued to pour hot water over the rocks.

Pushing through the water vapor that clung like grotesque jewels to his skin, Adam peered at Gypsy's face, hoping for a change. He pinned her arm to the bed as she began to cough. If she put her hands in front of her face, she might keep the mist from reaching her. His gut cramped at the sound, for the coughs slashed deep within her. Folding her fingers between his, he wished he could find a way to strip the fever away.

The hours Adam sat by Gypsy's bed passed uncounted. He lost track of day and night. When he was brought food, he ate. When the flunkeys peeked in, he gave orders. Farley came to get a report, but Adam ordered the camp manager not to return until he brought a doctor.

White steam clung to the walls, setting the bark to sparkling. The windowpanes froze into sheets of ice. Every attempt he made to get Gypsy to eat was unavailing. He watched the slow rise and fall of her chest and wished he could help her.

Fatigue burned his eyes. Blinking away exhaustion, Adam noticed faint light coming through the window. He tried to determine if it had been one day or two … or three. Rising, he kneaded the ache in his lower back. Years before, he had huddled behind a redoubt for days. Then he had not noticed the exertion of carrying a heavy rifle and supplies during a forced march or while facing the Confederates.

This was what he got for forgetting his resolve to keep out of everyone else's lives. Hadn't he learned his lesson at that redoubt? He should be doing his job and getting out of here, no connections to anyone or anything. Getting involved was an invitation to heartache.

He looked back at the bed. Somehow Gypsy had inveigled her way past all his defenses. He wanted her. He wanted to discover the flavor of every soft inch of her skin and to seek rapture deep within her. With her, he could discover sweet satisfaction—but if he had half a brain, that would be all.

No connections to anyone or anything. As she coughed weakly, he knew he must keep his vow. But for the first time, he wondered if he could.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

She hurt.

Her chest ached, and her throat was raw. Something pounded on her head like the iron burner's hammer on an anvil. Every time she took a breath, another boulder seemed to add to the weight pressing down on her.

Coolness.

Sweet moisture. It trickled down her throat, as luscious as ice cream on a summer afternoon. The trickle became a stream and then a river, washing away the heavy stones.

She took a deep breath. It was as sweet as ambrosia. She savored another. For the love of heaven, she could breathe!

A deep voice rumbled. She could not understand the words. No matter. She could breathe.

Another voice answered, and her heart thumped not with pain, but with happiness. Adam's voice. Adam was here.

“Adam?” she whispered, struggling to push her eyes open.

A shadow slipped over her. She blinked, trying to see his face, but fog drifted through her room.

“Don't talk, honey. Just rest.” He smiled and scratched his bewhiskered chin. “You've been mighty sick. When you get feeling better, I'm going to tell you exactly how stupid you were not to rest.”

A smile tugged at her weak lips as he bent to kiss her lightly. He would stay here with her, if for no other reason than to be able to say
I told you
so when she was better. She could trust him to help her … now. Later was something she did not want to think about.

That thought followed her into a dreamless sleep.

Doc Ahearn inched past the bucket and waved aside the steam. His brows, which were as dark as his unrelieved frock coat and bag, rose along his bald pate. “That's quite an invention, Lassiter.”

“I can't take credit for it,” Adam said. He had not been able to stifle his smile since Gypsy had reopened her eyes several hours ago. “It was Per's idea.”

The doctor smiled at Gypsy, who was unusually quiet. “Now what's this I hear about your being sick? That's not like you.”

In a wispy voice, which was all she could manage past her scored throat, she whispered, “I hope this hasn't inconvenienced you, Doc.”

“You know I'll take any chance to see you. Might convince you to run off with me yet.” He winked broadly at Adam, who was listening and grinning.

“I just might agree. Having a doctor around sounds wonderful.”

The doctor's brown eyes narrowed. Picking up her wrist, he put his sausage-thick fingers on her pulse. He opened the pocket watch he wore beneath his coat and counted silently. Looking across the bed, he said, “Excuse us, Lassiter. I'm sure Gypsy doesn't want an audience.”

Startled by Doc Ahearn's sudden acerbity, Adam nodded. Gypsy's condition must be even worse than he had guessed. Going to the door, he paused. An astonishingly strong throb of dismay cut through him as he saw the doctor open his bag.

Hank bustled forward. “Sit, Adam. You must be half dead on your feet.”

“At least half dead,” he agreed with a yawn. Glancing around the kitchen, he asked, “Where's Farley? I thought he'd be here.”

“Rose is right put out that he's been worrying about Gypsy.” The fat man snickered. “Said he should spend Saturday night with her.”

“Saturday? Is it Saturday?”

Bert shoved a glass toward him. “'Ere. This should 'elp you figure out where you are. Drink up.”

Lifting the glass, Adam obeyed. “Whiskey? Farley would have our jobs if he discovered us with this.” He grinned wryly. “He'd have our necks.”

Hank shrugged. “We deserve a few drinks. It's Saturday night. Just because we want to stay here doesn't mean we have to miss our weekly entertainment.”

“No dancing girls?” he jested as he rubbed his left leg. It was definitely time to get rid of the cast.

“The girls were busy when I bought this moonshine from Miss Nissa.” Putting the bottle in the middle of the table, the heavy man laughed. “She agreed not to tell Farley as long as we looked after Gypsy. Appears she thinks a great deal of Gypsy.”

“It's hard not to think a great deal of Gypsy.” Adam held out his cup for a refill. “Tip 'er up, Hank. We'll drink to her health. Even Farley can't begrudge us that.”

Hearing laughs from the kitchen, Gypsy rebuttoned her nightgown. She looked expectantly at the doctor. When she saw the number of packets the doctor was placing on the table, she grimaced.

Doc Ahearn chuckled. “You didn't think you'd escape without taking some medicine, did you?”

“I'd hoped to avoid that.” When she tried to sigh, her breath caught, and she began to cough. Weak tears oozed from her eyes.

“I don't want you out of that bed until these powders are gone.”

“There's enough there for a month!”

“Actually about a week.”

“A week!”

“Take it easy, girl, or you'll be here for a lot longer. You've been very ill.”

“That's what Adam said.”

“Adam is right.” He closed his bag with an authoritative click. “He and your boys took good care of you. If they hadn't, you'd be dead.”

He strode to the door. Wanting to call him back, for he had left no instructions about what to do with the powders, Gypsy gasped when she heard him call Adam. She sagged into the mattress when the answering clunk of the cast and crutch resonated through her room.

Closing her eyes, she listened to the two deep voices. She delighted in having someone else take a share of the responsibility she had shouldered alone for so long.

A hand lifted hers, and she opened her eyes. She smiled at Adam. The dark whiskers blurring his strong jaw told her how unstinting his care had been. Turning her hand in his, she squeezed his fingers with what strength she had.

“Rest, Gypsy,” he whispered.

Every sound reverberated through her aching skull. As she closed her eyes, he tucked the chenille bedspread around her. Exactly when she fell asleep, she was unsure, but she knew Adam would be waiting when she woke. And that was all the comfort she needed right now.

“Good morning!”

Gypsy opened a single eye to discover Adam was coming toward her with a tray. He had rid himself of the cast almost a week ago.
As if his leg had never been broken,
she thought with silent sarcasm.

“How did you sleep?” he continued in the same cheerful voice.

“Fine.”

He laughed at her grumble. Placing the tray on the table by her bed, he poured a cup of tea. “Is this how you treat kindness, Gypsy?”

“I'm tired of being cosseted.”

His grin vanished as she struggled to plump the pillows. When she began to cough, he grimaced and took them from her. Fluffing them, he stuffed them between her and the headboard. He settled her shoulders against the softness, then offered her the cup.

While she gulped the sweetened tea, he said, “Maybe that'll prove you have no more strength than a newborn kitten. One of these days, you're going to admit how close you came to dying.”

“Dying of pneumonia or dying of boredom—which is worse?”

“Nothing's worse than hearing your bellyaching about something only time can cure,” he snapped with abrupt heat.

Regret sliced through her. She should be grateful he had tended her. In a subdued voice, she asked, “How are you managing in the kitchen?”

“Me or everyone?”

“Everyone … and you.”

He smiled as he put jelly on a slice of bread. Handing it to her, he took her cup. “The jacks haven't complained, although they'll be glad when you're back making pies and cakes.”

The idea of the same food day after day turned her stomach, but she had to be thankful the flunkeys had kept the cookhouse going. “Why don't you put Oscar in charge of desserts?”

“Me put him in charge?”

She smiled. Leaning back in the comfortable nest of pillows, she balanced the cup on her knee. “If you prefer, tell him
I'm
putting him in charge of desserts.”

When he saluted as he gave her a teasing “Yes, sir,” her smile faded. She lowered her eyes.

His finger under her chin tipped her face up to the concern in his expressive eyes. “What is it, honey?”

“Your saluting like that reminds me of the war.”

“That's a long time ago.”

“Not so long ago.” Her eyes grew distant as scenes from the past rushed into her memory. “It seems like only yesterday when Elliott was teasing me as Oscar does.”

“Who's Elliott?”

“He was my brother,” she answered as she smiled at the recollection she had not savored in so long.

“Your brother's name was Elliott Elliott?”

Gypsy sat straighter. “Of course not! His friends called him Elliott, and the family used that name, too.”

“I thought you only had a sister.”

“Elliott is dead.”

He sat beside her, his hand settling on her drawn-up knee. “In the war?”

“Yes.” She spoke the lie easily, for it was almost the truth. A few days did not change the fact that her brother had died while wearing his tattered gray uniform on his way home from the surrender at Appomattox.

“I'm sorry, Gypsy.”

“I'm sorry, too.” Plucking his hand off her knee, she said, “I've been meaning to ask you. What's happened with Lolly Yerkes's murder?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing's been discovered?”

“Didn't I just say that?”

The bed bounced as he stood, and a splash of hot tea burned through the blanket before she moved her leg hastily.

“You can be sure the murderer's success will encourage him to try again.”

When she gasped, a bout of coughing tightened its iron bands around her chest. He waited for her to stop long enough to say, “Adam, he or she has to be stopped.”

“She? What makes you think the murderer was a woman?”

“How could it be a man?” She sipped the tea. “The men were in their bunkhouses, except for you and Farley. Even if one of you had gone there, would you have been able to sneak into the crib without someone seeing you?”

He chuckled as he took her left hand and stroked it, sending pleasure flowing along her arm. “Gypsy, don't be naive. Nissa's girls like to make a few coins during the week. The men are pleased with a little illicit entertainment. Everyone's been happy with the arrangement until now.”

“Until now.” Raising her eyes to meet the azure glow in his, she nearly gasped again. That fierce heat revealed that longing fluttered within him, too.

His hand curved along her cheek as she leaned against the pillows. Too long ago, he had seared desire into her mouth. Every delectable caress, every exhilarating moment of expectation, every craving to be closer to him, all of it exploded through her.