Anything for You (3 page)

“Just keep an eye on the soup.” When she saw his dismay, she knew he had hoped she would ask him to throw Adam out. She almost laughed at the idea of Per, who was old enough to be her father, tossing Adam through the cookhouse door.

Going to the back of the room, she paused and scooped up a huge bowl. She took it to the table and placed it in front of Adam. “If you're going to sit and stare at us, you might as well do something useful. These peas need to be shucked.”

“I wasn't staring at all of you.”

She raised her chin. “Get started on these. The jacks want to eat as soon as they get back to camp. Unlike you, they've worked a full day.”

Low chuckles rumbled from the other flunkeys as she went to the larder. She kept her smile hidden until she was out of view. Greenhorns were fair game. Although they had little time for pranks in the cookhouse, she was sure that, over the next few days, all the most horrible jobs would be heaped on Adam.

Which suited her. He needed to see that working in her kitchen was no holiday.

Edging around barrels of molasses and sacks of potatoes, she wished she had brought a lantern. She did not want to trip over some small box which had been left on the floor. She picked her way through the maze cautiously.

In spite of herself, her thoughts fled back to Adam Lassiter. She could not accept Hank's opinion. Adam was not cheap and flashy. She was not sure what he was … or who.

“Hallmark,” she mumbled to herself. That word was too fancy even for Farley.

A smile tugged at her lips. Rose Quinlan would have been interested in Adam. Gypsy could not imagine a man who would not catch Farley's mistress's eye, nor a man who would not be pleased to be caught, because Rose was a beautiful blonde. Farley was a fool to bring her to the camp. A woman in the north woods was sure to cause trouble.

As she pulled down a box of crackers, she laughed softly. The old-timers had probably said the same about a cook named Gypsy Elliott when she first arrived in Glenmark Timber Company's cookhouse. She had proven them wrong. Soon they had forgotten she was a woman and respected her ability to match their work hour by hour.

She concentrated on having supper ready on time. When she heard deep voices filling the camp, she ordered her flunkeys to a more frantic pace. The loggers would go to the bunkhouses only long enough to change out of their calked boots so the spikes would not cut into the floors. They would expect their meal as soon as they reached the cookhouse.

Leaving Per to take the mounds of biscuits and potatoes covered with gravy into the dining room, Gypsy worked with Bert to get the meat sliced. Oscar and Hank carried in enormous bowls of squash and peas. Aware of Adam watching, she ignored him. Supper was not the time to look after a new flunkey. Explaining to him would take too many of the precious minutes they had to get the food on the table.

Gypsy sliced the dozens of pies she had put on the shelf by the door. Dumping cookies into a dishpan, she placed them in the center of the table. She laughed and slapped Oscar's hand as he reached for a chocolate one.

“After they eat,” she chided, although he was well aware of the rules.

“Let him have one or two. At the speed you work these poor fellows, they deserve something to eat.”

Gypsy gasped as she heard amusement in Adam's warm voice from behind her. Exasperation filled her. Looking over her shoulder, she met a chin covered with black whiskers. She took a deep breath as she raised her gaze to meet the laughter in Adam's blue eyes. His hand rose toward her cheek, and she held her breath as she thought of those long fingers touching her again.

Oscar's retort freed her from her silly fantasies. “Gypsy's rules are good ones. Don't give her lip when you don't know what we do here.”

“Oscar, take the cookies into the dining room,” she said.

“I can—”

“Take them in the other room, Oscar.” Her voice remained calm. When he nodded and left, she added, “I assume I won't have to remind you again that you aren't in charge here, Adam. I have very good reasons for the rules in my cookhouse.”

“Letting the kid take a single cookie won't hurt any of those jacks out there.”

She recoiled as he motioned broadly toward the dining room door. He wobbled on his crutch. Again she reached to steady him. He cursed under his breath as he leaned heavily on her. She fought to keep her knees from foundering.

“Are you all right?” she choked as she tried to keep him on his feet.
On his foot.
She forced the silly thought from her head.

“I am now.”

“Good. Then you can …” Her voice disappeared into another gasp as his fingers tightened around her shoulder.

His hand cupped her chin to tilt it back so she could not avoid his compelling gaze. Slowly, lightly, his thumb grazed her jaw, sending heated shivers through her. That warmth became exasperation when she saw his challenging grin. She tried to pull away, but his arm held her against him.

“If you don't take your hands off me,” she snapped, “I'll break your other leg.”

He chuckled. “You? I doubt you can break anything but a man's heart.”

“You'll find out if you don't let me go.” Gypsy hid her surprise when, with another laugh, he drew away. She pointed toward the bench. “Finish the job I gave you. If I hear a peep from you, you may learn I'm more resourceful than you suspect, Mr. Lassiter.”

“I thought it was going to be Adam.”

She reached for the earthenware bowls which had been set behind the pies on the shelf. As she placed them on the table and sprinkled cinnamon on the rice pudding in them, she said, “I don't need troublemakers in my kitchen.”

“I'm not—” He halted as the dining room door opened.

“Ah, Hank, Per, just in time for the pudding,” Gypsy said, not wanting them to guess anything was amiss. She preferred to handle problems herself, but if Adam continued to question her authority, she needed only to mention that to the flunkeys. Her crew would help her deal with him. They were a team, like the loggers on the hill. “Take this pudding out, and make sure Chauncey gets his share. You know how fond he is of rice pudding.”

Per hefted two of the heavy bowls and laughed. “Maybe I should just give the inkslinger these and a spoon.”

She smiled. To be angry around Per was impossible. Only Per had been working here longer than she had, and she appreciated how he had accepted her as the kingbee cook.

Gypsy did not look at Adam as she rubbed one tired hand against the other before she reached for the almost empty flour bag under the shelf. With a sigh, she swung it onto the table. A white cloud billowed outward, but she waved it aside while she took down a bucket as large as the water bucket by the door.

“What are you doing?” asked Adam.

“If you want doughnuts for breakfast, I have to mix up the batter now. That way, they can rise while we clean up. I'll put them in the larder overnight to slow the yeast. By morning, they're ready.” She smiled coolly. “You'll learn, if you're around here for any time, that there's as much precision to running a cookhouse as felling a tree.”

“More, apparently.” He grimaced as he moved his left leg, but his voice remained cheerful. “You do this every night?”

“Every night and every morning and every afternoon. Three meals a day six days a week, and two meals on Sunday.” Sprinkling flour on the stained oilcloth, she poured more into the bucket. “Welcome to the cookhouse.”

He dropped the last pea pod into his bucket. Folding his arms on the table, he said, “I'm impressed.”

“You should be. Our Gypsy's the best kingbee in the north woods.”

In surprise, Gypsy turned to see Farley standing in the larder door. Slapping her hands against her apron, she asked, “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

“On my way home.” He glanced uneasily at Adam. “I just thought I'd see how …” Clearing his throat, he gave Gypsy a smile she knew was false. “Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

Why did Adam upset the camp manager so much? Farley could freeze up as tight as the river when he wanted to, so she knew it was useless to ask him. She stirred the dough and said, “Everything's fine.”

“Is that so?”

“Take her word for it, Farley,” Adam said before she could answer. “If the rest of the camp ran as smoothly as this cookhouse, you wouldn't have anything to do but sit in your office and enjoy a cheroot.”

Farley tensed at Adam's easy grin. “Gypsy, can I talk with you?”

“I'm listening,” she said, ladling sugar into the thick dough.

“I need to talk with you privately.”

Seeing his uneasiness, she pushed the heavy bucket toward Adam. “Stir this. Don't stop until I tell you to.”

“Now there's something I like to hear a lady say.” His fingers closed over the edge of the bucket, capturing hers beneath them.

Again the warm pulse careened through her. Hastily she pulled her hands out from under his. Aware of Farley's presence, she was not sure if she was more furious at Adam for his provocative words or at herself for reacting to them. Adam Lassiter's smooth-talking ways would only cause trouble.

“Do you like hearing a lady say,” she asked when she was sure her voice was under control, “that you'll be sorry if you let the dough sit too long before you add the other flour?” She did not give him a chance to reply before she added to Farley, “It's got to be quick. I've got too much to do to chatter the evening away.”

The camp manager put his hand on her elbow and led her toward the larder door. With the stove and a rack of shelves between them and Adam, he lowered his voice and said, “Gypsy, I don't like the looks of this.”

“Looks of what?” she asked, although she already knew.

“Lassiter's attitude. He's going to cause you trouble.”

“Then why did you send him to my cookhouse?”

“What else could I do with him?”

“You could have—never mind.” Having this argument over again would just be a waste of time. Time she did not have. “Don't pay any attention to him. I don't.” She flinched as she lied.

“If you have any trouble with him, let me know.”

“I don't expect any I can't deal with.” That much was the truth. She smiled and patted Farley's arm. “Go home. Rose will be worried if you're late.”

He nodded as he pulled up his coat collar. His relieved smile told her he was willing to leave his problem in her hands.

Hands. She fought not to turn and stare at Adam's. More than any other part of him, they spoke the truth. The men who worked out here in the north woods had hands that were chapped, cracked, and scarred. His were not.

“Gypsy,” Farley said, drawing her attention back to him, “Lassiter is right about one thing. I wish I had a dozen more like you.”

“If you find another me, send her here. I could use a vacation.”

Taking his laughter out into the night where the snow had slowed to a few lazy flakes wafting on the night breeze, he closed the back door. Gypsy wrapped her arms around herself as she edged toward the stove. The cold was so deep even the kitchen would be freezing tonight.

When she saw the flunkeys were back, she set Bert to finishing the doughnuts while the others hurried to do the jobs they did each evening. She wiped her hands on her apron as she walked to the dining room door.

“How about me, Gypsy?”

At Adam's question, she called over her shoulder, “Wash the dishes. If you need anything, ask Per. He has the stove watch tonight.”

“Yes, ma'am!”

She turned to see him snapping a salute. Memory sliced through her, sharp and painful. She had seen too many salutes during the horrible war nearly a decade ago. A shudder of horror threatened to smother her in those memories.

Adam was shocked when Gypsy's face blanched to the color of moon-swept snow. Gripping the table, he started to rise. The clunk of the cast halted him, and she vanished into the dining room before he could ask what was wrong.

“Look out!” snapped Hank.

Adam leaned back as a large galvanized tub was set on the floor in front of him. Buckets of steaming water were poured into it.

With a wink, Oscar shoved soap and a rag into his hand. “Now you'll learn that peeling onions ain't the worst job in the cookhouse. A hundred jacks make quite a pile of dirty dishes.”

“A hundred?” He grinned, then groaned as Bert and Per brought in armloads of plates and boxes of flatware and mugs. “I'm going to have a broken back to go along with my ankle.”

Hank patted him on the shoulder. “Gypsy breaks us all in to the hard work straightaway. You might as well get used to it, or you won't last a week here.”

“Maybe not the night.” With a deep sigh, which brought more laughs from the other flunkeys, he set the nearest pile of plates in the water. “If I don't get started, I'll be here all night.”

“Naw, shouldn't take you more than a couple of hours,” Oscar replied, before going to help Hank clean the stove.

Adam's thought that the kid was jesting vanished when Bert returned with more dishes, and Hank began to stack the cooking pots on the table. Gypsy was out to pay him back for intruding on her little kingdom here. He rubbed at stubborn bits of gravy and frowned. Washing dishes all night was not how he planned to spend his time in the north woods.

His stomach rumbled as he worked, and he wondered when the kitchen crew got to eat. He forgot his discomfort as he listened to the flunkeys gossiping. Nothing caught his attention, because they spoke only of work and the other loggers. To think he would be successful his first night was foolish. He should know better.

When Per brought more warm water, Adam said, “Gypsy mentioned you had the stove watch. What's that?”

The old man chuckled as he picked up a towel and began to dry plates. “Gypsy has her own terms for everything. The stove watch is just what it sounds like. One of us has to stay awake in the kitchen all night to make sure the fire doesn't go out in the cookstove.”