Anything for You (2 page)

“It'll be long.”

“I don't doubt that.”

“And costly.”

“I don't doubt that, either.”

She swallowed her shock. Calvin Farley was usually as stingy with a penny as a miser, except when it came to his mistress. Just the threat of separating him from some of his money should have been enough to change his mind about Lassiter. She looked back at the tall man, who was leaning on his crutch. Something was wrong here.

“You don't look like much of a jack to me,” she said, deciding one of them had to be honest. “Were you told to walk at Tellison Timber?”

Lassiter smiled, but his eyes grew as cold as the blue lips of a dead man. “I left of my own accord, Miss Elliott.”

“Gypsy,” she corrected. “We don't stand on formalities here.”

“I heard Glenmark Timber was offering a bonus to anyone hiring on now.”

“Bonus?” she gasped. Farley was trying to hide his sheepish expression. “Is that why you want me to put him to work in my kitchen? You paid him the bonus already? Before he'd done a single day's work? Are you mad? Mr. Glenmark will have your hide!”

“Gypsy, as your boss, I'm asking—”

“My only boss at Glenmark Timber Company is Daniel Glenmark. You know that as well as I do!” Stamping to the door, she jerked it open. Wind scattered snow about the floor, but she paid no attention, except to brush her hair away from her face. “I have to get back to the cookhouse, but we'll discuss this again.”

“There's nothing to discuss. Lassiter is working for you. I don't have anything else to say on this.”

“Good! Because I have plenty to say, and you can just sit and listen.”

“Gypsy—”

“Later! I've got to make sure supper is ready, or we'll all be walking.” She glowered at the injured man. “Well, Lassiter, come along. I guess you're about to learn firsthand about my being irascible.”

Again Farley began, “Gypsy, I didn't mean that as an insult. I—”

“Don't bother apologizing when you know it's true.” Walking out, she tossed over her shoulder, “C'mon, Lassiter. We can't jaw all afternoon.”

Adam Lassiter jammed his crutch under his arm and limped toward the door. Glancing back, he saw Farley's chagrined frown. That a slender woman with a temper as fiery as her auburn hair could cow the manager of the logging camp told him a lot.

When he closed the door behind them, Gypsy asked, with a compassion he had not expected, “Can you manage?”

“I'm learning. The snow's tough.” He offered her a smile, but she continued toward the cookhouse. Charm was not going to work on Gypsy Elliott. He needed another way to deal with her.

“If you want to eat,” she called back, “you'll have to do a full day's work. I don't have time to pamper a crippled jack.”

He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the view of her black skirt swaying through the snow. This woman did not mince words. He realized her frustration was not focused on him, but on Farley. Adam Lassiter was no more than an irritation to her.

Softly, he chuckled. He suspected he would irritate her more before he found a way to get out of her kitchen and back to the work he preferred. Somehow, he always irritated his bosses. He doubted it would be any different with Gypsy Elliott.

His eyes were caught by the sight of a slender ankle as she raised her skirt to edge around a drift. She certainly was better to look at than his last boss. Curiosity taunted him to figure out what a lovely woman with startlingly green eyes and the absurd name of Gypsy was doing in this logging camp so far from anywhere.

He glanced around the camp. Every tree wore a film of snow on the windward side. When he had decided to come north, he had not considered how barbaric the living conditions would be. He thought fondly of a hearth in Lansing and a glass of something glowing golden in his hand. Silently he reminded himself he had chosen this job.

He reached the door to the cook shack, which Gypsy was holding open. Smiling at her, he asked, “How long have you been the kingbee cook here?”

“Three years,” Gypsy answered as she stepped up into the cookhouse. Holding out her hand, she asked, “Can you get up here?”

“It's steep.” He swore, then smiled an apology. “Pardon me, Gypsy.”

“Don't worry. You'll hear far worse from everyone in the cookhouse, including me. Do you want help?” Impatience returned to her voice. “Make up your mind before my fingers freeze off.”

With a chuckle, he held up the crutch.

Gypsy frowned as she took it, wondering how he could cope without it. When he leaped up, his arms windmilled. She dropped the crutch and wrapped her arms around his waist. They teetered. He grabbed a table. A yelp burst from her when her hip crashed into it.

His arm curved around her, and her breath snagged at the very spot where her breasts brushed his firm chest. Raising her eyes, she stared up at the mysteries in his. A slow smile inched beneath his mustache.

Was she completely witless? She had let every jack know that she was here only to cook for them. Adam Lassiter had better learn that, too, or … she was not sure what she would do if he did not, because his touch was as intriguing as his eyes.

Gypsy Elliott, are you crazy? How can you forget what can happen if you get too close to anyone?

A shiver coursed through her. When she started to take a step back, he wobbled. She gripped his arms, and he pulled her back against him. Her breath exploded from her.

“You don't want me to fall and break my other ankle, do you?” he asked, grinning.

She grabbed the crude crutch. Shoving it into his hands, she said, “If you're done with your clowning, Lassiter, the kitchen is this way.”

“It's Adam,” he called as she walked toward the kitchen door.

Gypsy looked back. “Excuse me?”

“My name's Adam.” He lurched toward her as the crutch threatened to trip him. Halting, he cursed vividly, then tried again. “I thought you said informality was the hallmark of your kitchen.”

“
Hallmark?
You speak pretty fancy for a jack.”

He chuckled and shrugged. “Blame my parents. They believed a classical education was more important than teaching a boy how to survive in this world.”

“You learned a lesson in that today.” Again she smiled in spite of herself. “You should leave the rough work to folks who can handle it.”

“Like you?”

“Like me.” She motioned toward the kitchen. “Come along. The bread should be ready, and there are potatoes to peel and gravy to make before the men come back for supper.”

“That's only an hour or so from now.”

“Exactly.” Her smile became as cold as the snow glittering beyond the single window. “Welcome to the cookhouse, Mr. Lassiter. I wouldn't be surprised if, in a few days, you'll be begging that ankle to heal at top speed so you can return to the soft life of a jack.”

Adam almost laughed, but saw she meant her words. As she went into the kitchen, he grimaced. This job was going to take more time than he had thought. He had been a fool to think he was prepared for the worst the north woods could hand out. No doubt Gypsy Elliott intended to teach him what the worst could be.

CHAPTER TWO

If her crew was amazed that Gypsy had returned with a new flunkey, they were wise enough to keep their opinions to themselves. Adam said nothing when the four men stared at him. He could not keep from smiling as he took a deep breath. Roast venison. His stomach grumbled, reminding him he had not eaten since breakfast, when he had washed down a slice of dried bread with a mouthful of melted snow.

He whistled under his breath. How did Gypsy and her crew work here? The kitchen was no bigger than the dining room. Like all the buildings in the camp, the cookhouse had been built of pine logs. The sole window was nearly hidden behind a massive cast-iron stove. With barrels edging the walls, there was barely enough room for the table in the middle of the floor. Bowls and cooking utensils were set on crooked shelves over the barrels, and huge cooking pots were stacked beside the stove. Overhead, each rafter supported boxes of salt and sugar. Two doors were set on the wall to his left, and he wondered where they went. He would check as soon as he had a chance.

Adam forced a smile when Gypsy rattled off the other men's names before she asked, “Bert, did you get that barrel from the storage room?”

“Not yet, Gypsy.”

“Don't let us delay you.”

Bert nodded.

Fascinated, Adam listened as she asked each man what he had been doing. She was not reluctant to give praise, but she was just as ready to reprimand. Farley had been right. She would be a demanding boss.

“Gypsy,” he began when she paused to take a breath.

“Wait here.” She pointed to a bench by the table.

Adam smiled when she hurried to talk to the wide man standing by the open oven door. Hank Johnson, if he recalled correctly. That Gypsy had not waited to see if he obeyed was further warning she was not used to having her orders questioned. Not that he should be surprised. She was the “kingbee.”

He silenced his chuckle as he lowered himself gingerly to the bench. His leg ached worse than he had guessed it would.

He had not guessed he would end up in the cookhouse. He tried to convince Farley to let him work in the camp manager's office as a clerk or an inkslinger, as the jacks would say. Instead, he had been sent to the kitchen to slave under a red-haired taskmaster.

Adam winced as he adjusted his left leg and tried to make himself more comfortable on the narrow bench. The cast must weigh as much as the stove. He had not worn it more than two hours, and already his skin burned along the plaster edges and itched beneath it.

“Problem?” asked a young voice.

“Nothing a few weeks won't cure,” he answered as he grinned at the light-haired boy Gypsy had called Oscar.

Wiping his sleeve against his eyes, Oscar gave him a weak smile and bent to pick up another onion from the pile next to his stool. With quick, efficient strokes, the boy stripped off the skin, which fell into a basket by his feet. A powerful reek surrounded him.

“How many of those do you have to do?” Adam asked, looking toward where Gypsy was talking with another of her flunkeys. Flunkey! What a ridiculous term! Not a single man wore livery as a proper flunkey should, unless their aprons were their uniform.

Oscar interrupted his thoughts. “Just a dozen more. Gypsy doesn't need more than ten pounds of onions tonight.”

“What did you do to rate this punishment?”

“Nothing.” His knife did not falter as he sliced through the red-gold skin to leave the white glistening like moonlight on an icy river. “I'm the quickest, so I do this. Bert chops meat from the beef out in the locker. Per does—”

Adam interrupted, “You
like
doing this?”

“Not really. It's just …” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Gypsy depends on me.” A smile pulled at his narrow cheeks. “I guess that's why I don't mind.”

If Gypsy inspired this loyalty, Adam decided, she must be pretty remarkable.

“Get me a knife,” he said to Oscar, “and I'll help you.”

Oscar hesitated, then mumbled, “No, thanks. Gypsy'll tell you what she wants you to do.”

“So she really is in charge here?”

“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

Astounded by Oscar's abrupt fury, Adam answered before the lad's raised voice caught Gypsy's attention. “No problem. None at all.”

Adam glanced across the crowded kitchen. For a moment, he thought Gypsy had left. Then he saw her leaning over an open oven door.

He rested his chin on the heel of his palm and smiled. Without her shapeless black coat, her slender curves were a pleasure to behold. Her pert nose advised him to watch out for the cantankerous nature that contrasted with the honeyed smoothness of her Southern drawl. Her face was flushed with heat as she stood and pushed back her hair, drawing his eyes along her throat. Hank said something to her, and she laughed, her eyes sparkling like dew-washed grass.

What was a captivating woman like Gypsy Elliott doing in the north woods? He could not think of a single reason why she might be here—unless she was trying to hide from someone. Maybe she had left a lover—or a husband—behind. He knew he would find out eventually. Secrets had a way of not staying secret when he put his mind to them.

She turned, and her gaze locked with his. Her smile evaporated as she hastily looked away. She
was
hiding something! He chuckled to himself. This might be more interesting than he had guessed.

Gypsy tried to ignore Adam Lassiter's gaze on her. Other jacks had been stupid enough to think she needed someone to fill her leisure hours. First, she had no leisure time. Even if she did, she was not likely to get involved with a jack.

A tingle coursed through her. Adam was still watching her. Bending to check the biscuits in the second oven, she was glad when Bert came to stand between her and Adam. She was silly, she knew. What she did not know was how to halt the quivers each time his eyes captured hers.

“It's a bad idea to bring 'im 'ere,” Bert muttered as he pulled biscuits out of the oven. “Is Farley crazy? You don't 'ave time to take care of a bumped-up jack.”

She smiled wryly as she stirred the chicken soup, raising its rich scent. “I tried to convince Farley to let Rose take care of Adam.”

Instead of laughing as she had expected, Bert glared across the room.

Hank grumbled, “She'd probably like having him about. He looks like her type. Cheap and flashy.”

“All the more reason for Farley to want him here instead of at his house,” she answered. She called to Per. The older man hurried to her. Beneath the perpetual shadow of silvery whiskers, he did not wear his usual smile.

“What do you want, Gypsy?” he asked as he glanced at the newcomer.