Anything for You (24 page)

“Even when someone tells you to be sensible?”

Taking the piece of cake he offered her, she smiled. “I didn't plan on going in the water.”

“You didn't.”

“I guess I have you to thank for that.”

“I—” Adam turned at another knock. “I told them you weren't to be disturbed.”

“Don't be so hard on the flunkeys, Adam.”

“Why not? They're hard on you. Why can't they let you rest for five minutes before they bother you?” He stormed to the door.

Gypsy smiled as she hugged her drawn-up knees. She never expected her dashing knight would be dressed in a flannel shirt and denims which clung to his lean body. When he reached for the door's latch, she admired his hands, which could steal her mind from her with a fevered caress. She sat straighter when she saw who stood in the doorway.

Farley pushed into the room. His anger became shock when Adam grasped his arm. “Get out of my way, Lassiter!”

“Let him in, Adam,” Gypsy said as she brushed crumbs off the blanket.

“Just a few minutes,” Adam said grudgingly. “She's pushed herself too much, Farley.”

The camp manager crossed the floor, his boots resounding hollowly. He tossed her forgotten shoes on her lap. “What did you think you were doing? Do you think the jacks will put up with swill so you can play games in the river?”

“It would be very difficult to get another kingbee cook now, wouldn't it?” Folding her arms over her chest, she laughed. “Your compassion is overwhelming, Farley.”

“Why should I care if you want to break your neck? You don't listen to a thing anyone else says.”

“I listened carefully when I learned to birl.”

“Who taught you that?”

“You can't believe I'd tell you.” When he started to protest, she added, “If you don't know, Farley, you can't write to Mr. Glenmark to explain why you sacked one of his loggers.”

His lips tilted in a smile. “Aren't you ever going to let me win an argument?”

“You won when you sent Adam to work here.”

“So I did.”

Gypsy saw Farley's troubled expression before it was masked. The camp manager wished he had lost that battle. Was he suspicious of Adam for the same reason she was? Did Farley know of Adam's late-night wanderings? That was ridiculous. Farley had been busy with Rose the night of the murder. He had not seen Adam.

There had to be another reason, and that scared her.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Coming to the 'urrah, Gypsy?” Bert asked as he hammered the top on an empty molasses barrel.

“Make sure that's tight. I don't want hungry critters camping behind the cookhouse.” When he grimaced at the warning she repeated every time a flunkey carried out an empty barrel, she laughed. “I haven't decided. It's been quite a while since the jacks have had to entertain themselves on a Saturday night.”

He chuckled. “I 'ope it'll be a party instead of a dirge. The lads miss Nissa's gals. Sure to be moaning aplenty tonight.”

“Is Stretch Helsen's hand well enough to play the fiddle?”

Bert nodded, his beard bouncing with enthusiasm. “Frostbite's nearly gone. Didn't lose a joint, either. Says 'e's going to play tonight, if Old Vic will bring 'is mouth organ.”

“If there's any liquor at the hurrah, Old Vic won't stay sober long enough to toot more than a few notes.”

“Liquor? You know Farley's rules, Gypsy.”

She laughed. “I know how easily those rules will be forgotten if the jacks want to drown their loneliness.”

He hefted the barrel effortlessly. “So I'll see you there.”

“Maybe.” Gypsy closed the door and shivered. Leaving her cozy cookhouse on such a blustery night would be silly. After the berating Farley had given her—rightly, she had to admit—she should make it an early night and a late breakfast.

She pulled out the recipe book, which was splotched with stains. With less food in the larder at the end of each day, she must be more imaginative. She paged through the book and smiled as each page resurrected memories until she could smell her family's fragrant kitchen. That stove had been smaller than the monster here, but it had been just as black and had gleamed with the same chrome accents.

Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against her folded arms. She wanted to forget the past, but the memories refused to be forgotten.

“All alone?” Adam's voice broke into her thoughts.

“It would appear so, Adam,” she said, straightening.

“Busy?”

“Why?”

“I thought you'd like an escort to the hurrah, Gypsy.”

As she looked up, her answer died unspoken. From the first time she had seen Adam Lassiter, she had been unable to ignore the rugged planes of his face. Brawny men were hardly the exception in the Glenmark Timber Company camp, but something about Adam always drew her eyes.

When he walked to where she was sitting, his boots struck each board resoundingly. It was a noise she was accustomed to, but the sound usually came in a storm of hungry loggers. He smiled as he rested his elbow on the table so his eyes were even with hers.

“I didn't expect to see you tonight,” she murmured.

“Did you think Farley would tell me to walk?”

“Not really, but he was mighty peeved after he stormed out of here.”

“I'd say he's pleased with me at the moment.”

“Pleased?” His cheerful words and the twitch of his lips warned he was about to send her life spinning out of control again. “What makes you say that?”

“Farley's appointed me your cookee.”

Gypsy stood and glared at him. “How dare he? I don't need an assistant.” Pulling off her apron, she slammed it onto the table. Adam leaped back to avoid the whipping apron strings. “If that's how he wants it, I'm walking.”

“You quit? Don't be ridiculous, Gypsy.”

“Do you think Farley's going to hire
you
as kingbee cook? It's time he learns the truth—that you can't break an egg without spending an hour hunting for the shells.”

“Gypsy, be reasonable.”

“Now you sound like Farley! He always has a soft spot for those who fawn over him.” Fiercely, she stated, “I've had enough of this.”

When he stepped in front of her, she tried to push past him. He caught her arms and halted her with the ease of muscles strong enough to wrestle logs. Anew, she wondered why he stayed in the kitchen when he could be earning higher wages on the hill. The answer always came back the same.

Adam Lassiter was not a lumberjack.

As he stroked her stiff arms, yearning threatened to swallow her anger. Her gaze rose along his wool shirt. No beard hid the strength carved into his face's rigid lines. His blue eyes were as heated as a hazy summer sky.

His slightest tug drew her to him. The tips of his boots brushed her shoes, and his sturdy chest was only inches from the lace on the front of her blouse. She should say something, anything. She could not.

His arm encircled her waist and brought her against him. She sighed with delight. Although he was not a man of the woods, he possessed its wild ferocity. She could imagine his fierce eyes in a beast amid the trees.

A shiver cut through her. She must not let passion blind her. “Adam,” she whispered. Her voice betrayed her, trembling with the need surging within her.

“Hush, honey.” He bent to tease the whorls of her ear with his tongue. Each flick burned like a brand as her fingers clenched on his shirt.

Unable to fight the melded power of their desire, she clung to him while his lips traced a path along her throat. Even that was not close enough, for the fabric separating them offered a hint of the luscious sensation of skin against skin.

With a moan, she pulled away. His hands tightened on her for a half second, then released her. She backed away, gasping, “You can't convince me to accept Farley's dictates this way!”

“Do you really think that's why I want to kiss you?”

Gypsy refused to be beguiled out of her anger. It was all that kept her from being tantalized by his kisses. “I don't know how you coerced him into giving you the cookee job when he thinks you're trouble.”

He laughed, the cold sound penetrating her more sharply than the winter wind. “Don't you understand? He didn't promote me because he likes my baby blues. He made me cookee to repay you for risking yourself on a log.”

“That proves how stupid he is!”

“It does.”

Gypsy choked back her retort at his startling agreement. When his finger stroked her cheek, she closed her eyes. She could not fight the craving to be in his arms.

“Honey,” he whispered, “you still haven't answered my question.”

“Question?” Her eyes opened to find his face only a shadow's distance from hers.

“Why don't we go over to the hurrah? Why don't you let me take you out in style?”

She blinked, startled because she had expected—had hoped—he would say something very different. He would have in her dream.

For the love of heaven, she must remember that was only a fantasy brought on by her fever. Or had it been the craving of her heart to belong to someone? Groping for her coat, she sought to silence her own doubt.

He smiled as he plucked her coat off the hook. Holding it so she could slip her arms into it, he laughed. “You have to grow a bit more, honey.”

“I'm afraid I've reached the size I'm meant to be.”

“Exactly perfect to be in my arms.” He teased her nape with gentle nibbles until she moaned with the craving for his lips on hers.

Turning, she led his mouth to hers. Everything she wanted was in that kiss, but it was not enough. Each touch made her ache for more.

As her fingertips touched the warm skin beneath his upturned collar, he whispered, “We need to get going, or we'll be late for the hurrah.”

“It's so cold out.” She should not be saying this, but he had honed her longings to obsession. She wanted to discover if her dream could come true.

“I think we should get going before it starts snowing again.” His words were slow, as if they were distasteful.

“But, Adam—”

“Let's go.” He dropped her bonnet on her head and laughed. The sound was as strained as his voice.

She fumbled as she tried to tie the ribbons. Was she mad to throw herself at Adam? It would be better this way. A few kisses and nothing more except good-bye. It
would
be better. Wouldn't it?

“All right,” she said. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to smile. “It's about time you kept your promise to give me a night out, Mr. Lassiter. A gentleman never goes back on his word.”

“I'll have to remember that.” He lifted her down from the door as if she were dismounting a horse. Pulling the door shut, he held out his hand. “It's been a long time since I've been in the company of a fine lady, Miss Elliott. I trust you'll correct my manners if necessary.”

“I'm sure I will.”

She was not sure if his laugh or hers sounded more hypocritical.

Gypsy clapped her hands as the fiddler started a square dance. The sparse space between the bunks was filled with jacks. Others crowded onto the bunks. Near the stove at the far end, a piece of twine was draped with drying socks.

The man with the fiddle-box had earned his name Stretch. His head brushed the rafters when he stood to call, “Bucks, find yourself a gal and swing her out into a square.”

When Adam held out his hand, Gypsy smiled. She was the only woman in the bunkhouse, but the men wearing a handkerchief on their right arms were the “gals.”

Old Vic picked up his mouth organ in his gnarled fingers. With no hair on his head and his body bent from too many winters, he refused to retire. He would not leave the north woods until Reverend Frisch came to speak a few words over his body in a box made from the pines around them.

Gypsy laughed as the music began, and she sashayed from one man to the next around the square. When she came back to Adam, he whirled her about and put his arm around her waist as he promenaded her to the beat of clapping hands, which nearly obliterated the cheerful melody. She took Edvard's broad hands and spun with him in the center of the lopsided square, then stepped back as Adam linked arms with Edvard's bulky partner, who wore a garish green handkerchief around his arm. She laughed as the men's boots struck the floor like thunder.

Her breath exploded out as Adam twirled her into his arms. When he paused, the other dancers in the square bumped into them, but he ignored the grumbles. Concern darkened his eyes to nearly purple as he asked, “Gypsy, are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” She slipped her arm through his and urged him to follow Edvard and his partner. “Don't worry so much.”

As they watched the others spin in the center of the square, he smiled. “I like to worry about you, Gypsy,” he whispered against her hair.

She had no time to reply as Stretch urged everyone to promenade with the person to their left. Swinging along with Peabody's enthusiastic dancing, she found her gaze returning to Adam. The warmth of his smile surrounded her as he took her hands and turned her into his arms as the dance brought them back together.

The room exploded into applause when the dance ended. Before she could speak, Stretch began the next tune. Adam grinned as he bowed to her.

More than an hour later, the musicians took a breather. Gypsy leaned her head against Adam's shoulder while she wiped sweat from her forehead. In the packed bunk-house, it was warm for the first time all winter. Someone pressed a cup into her hand, and she sipped gratefully. She was not surprised it was whiskey.

Peabody's men bragged about the scale of lumber that would come from the hillside they had cleared. The other crews announced their own figures. Under the laughter came a steady ping as the men chewing tobacco spit into metal spittoons.