Anything for You (6 page)

“Then why did he write this letter? Glenmark wants Lassiter to work here for the rest of the winter. Why?”

“I don't have any idea.”

“None?”

Her brow furrowed in a scowl. “Why should I know anything more than you do?”

With a sigh, he stood. “I was hoping you had discovered something I didn't when I talked to Lassiter. I admit I was surprised when I heard you might be firing him.”

“Just trying to get him to toe the line.”

“He acts so friendly,” he continued, as if he had not heard her, “but I think he's hiding something.”

Gypsy resisted agreeing. Looking for trouble where there might not be any was sure to create problems. “Farley, you're becoming too suspicious in your old age.”

“Maybe.”

“I promise if I have any problem with him, he'll walk.”

A reluctant smile lessened the lines across his forehead. “All right. I'll leave the matter in your hands.”

“Which means that I have to explain it to Mr. Glenmark if I want him fired?”

He nodded. “I'd better get back to the office. I have to check Peabody's schedule for work on the west hill.” He put on his hat and grinned. “With Lassiter ending up in your kitchen, Glenmark did him no favor.”

Hours later, as she banked the fire in the dining room stove and blew out the lantern, Gypsy could not stop thinking about Farley's words. Adam might have come to the camp under unusual circumstances, but he had done his share of work today. He spent more time with the other flunkeys than with her. Oscar was already seeking out Adam to chat with while they worked. If she dismissed what had happened in the larder, Adam was settling in well.

She walked to the window. On moonlit nights, she could see the glitter of the river's ice through the pine branches, but tonight a fury of snowflakes hid everything.

Folding her arms on the sill, she shivered with the cold prying past the windowpanes. Even a blizzard would not halt work, but the fresh snow would add to the peril the jacks faced every day. When the windows rattled with the music of the wind, she stepped back. It was senseless to stay here when her stove warmed her bedroom.

Gypsy smiled as she entered the kitchen and saw Bert pushing logs into the cookstove. “Your turn tonight?”

The tall man offered his ready grin. “'Fraid so. It's been one lousy day. First, 'aving to cart lunch up to the 'ill, then stoking the fire tonight. At least, I won't 'ave to listen to all the snoring in the bunkhouse.”

“Just have the stove ready early tomorrow.”

“If you'll 'ave your swamp water ready first thing.”

With a laugh, she patted his arm. “You know my coffee is as legendary as Paul Bunyan himself.” She walked toward her bedroom, but paused as he called her name. “What is it, Bert?”

“This was brought over for you.” He held out a simple white envelope. “I guess they forgot to deliver it with the mail earlier.”

She smiled her thanks, but wondered why Daniel had written to her. It had to be from the company's owner. No one else would write to her here. Had he guessed Adam might end up in her kitchen?

Bidding Bert good night, she went into her bedroom. She lit the lantern by the door and set it on a brad hooked to a rafter. Light spread to reveal the plain room she called home. A simple rag rug between the potbellied stove and the bed was the only bright spot on the rough floorboards. By the room's one window, her plain iron bed waited to enfold her in sleep. The worn counterpane was one of her few connections with the place which had been home before she came to the north woods. This was home now. After nearly three years, she had set aside her dreams of living anywhere else.

Gypsy tossed the envelope on the bed. She would read it after she had slipped under the covers. Slowly she unbuttoned the pearl buttons along the back of her blouse. She yawned as she hung it on one of the pegs behind the door. Undoing her skirt, she let it fall to the floor. Her petticoats dropped on top of the black wool.

Only when she had pulled on her flannel nightgown and buttoned it into place did she reach for the envelope. Daniel owed both her and Farley an explanation of why he had sent Adam to the camp under such strange circumstances. With a laugh, she thought about not telling Farley for a few days and watching him squirm with curiosity. That would repay him for his high-handed insistence that Adam work in her kitchen.

When she opened the letter, her smile vanished and her breath caught in her throat. She slid to sit on the mattress as she read:

Gypsy Elliott,

I know who you are. I know what you did. I know you should pay. Death is about to overtake you, just as it has the ones you love.

Sleep well by your icy river before I send you to burn in hell.

“No,” she whispered as her trembling fingers turned the envelope so she could see the postmark. Saginaw!

Who in Saginaw wanted her dead? Why? She knew no one in Saginaw. She had spent less than an hour there on her way to the logging camp.

She looked back at the letter. It was written in large square letters. The childish handwriting added to the insanity of such a threat.

I know who you are. I know what you did.

“What did I do?” she cried. She searched her memories. She had teased the other children she had grown up with and been teased back. Once, when she was six, she had stolen half a sweet potato pie from Mrs. Mulligan next door. Papa made sure she paid for that. Just childish crimes. What had she done to deserve this?

Nothing!

Then why was someone sending her this? Hadn't she suffered enough already? Her parents dead, her brother dead, her sister far from her. She had left everything that was familiar to come here and build a new life. She had put that grief behind her.

Cursing, she leaped to her feet, grabbed a thick cloth, and opened the small door of the woodstove. The stove's hot breath reddened her face as she crushed the page and threw it in. Her breath burned in her chest as she watched the letter disappear in the fire. Whirling, she scooped up the envelope and sent it to the same end.

She dropped to her knees and hid her face in her hands. She had thought the terror was over … dead and buried along with those she loved.

She had been wrong.

CHAPTER FOUR

Gypsy fought not to shift on the hard bench in the dining room. Reverend Frisch had brought an endless supply of parables with him this afternoon. With a sigh, she folded her hands in her lap. She should be grateful he had come after midday. She and her crew had had time to serve breakfast and clean up before the dining room was altered into a makeshift church by the sky pilot.

A smile teased her lips. The loggers had a vocabulary of their own. Not a man in the camp would think of calling the blacksmith anything but an iron burner. The clerk was an inkslinger. The itinerant preacher who made his way here every other week was a sky pilot. She liked that term. It fit Reverend Frisch.

The silver-haired minister wore his backward collar beneath a mackinaw shirt. He never acted as if it was unusual to use a dining room table for an altar while he offered communion out of a cracker box. With his cheeks above his thick beard rosy with the cold, his strong hands emphasized every word coming from his generous heart.

“Is he always this long-winded?”

Glancing at Adam, who sat beside her, she almost laughed. He had to sit sideways so his left foot did not stick between the legs of the man in front of him, and he could not move.

She whispered, “He's almost done.”

“I hope so.” His grin lessened the edge on his complaint.

Gypsy tried to listen to Reverend Frisch, but could not keep her thoughts from straying. In the past few days, Adam had relented in their battle of words. She could not relax, though. She feared she was becoming too obvious in her attempts to avoid any motion that might graze her fingers against his.

Her hands clenched in her lap. She might have been able to handle her own silliness, except for Farley's suspicions. They were more trouble than Adam. She looked at Farley, who was sitting alone on the opposite side of the room. Some residual conscience kept him from bringing his mistress to church. She found that hypocrisy ludicrous, because Reverend Frisch knew all about Rose Quinlan.

When she put her hand up to hide a yawn, Gypsy heard Adam's muffled laughter. The sky pilot glanced in their direction. Meeting Reverend Frisch's dark eyes, she hoped he would not guess she was thinking of anything but his sermon.

The service came to a quick close when his words were interrupted by a loud snore. The sleepy logger was routed awake to laughter and a hurried benediction. As the men rose, the makeshift church dissolved back into the dining room.

“Fool should have come back from the Porcelain Feather earlier,” mumbled Adam as he reached for his crutch.

“Maybe he didn't have your self-restraint.”

He grinned when he stood to look down at her from his height, which was impressive even when he leaned on his crutch. “As you may recall, Miss Elliott, I had no chance to go gallivanting off for a few drinks and a pleasant armful. I had the stove watch last night.”

“It was your turn.”

“True.” He chuckled. “I'm not complaining, although I had hoped for some company last evening.”

“There will be other Saturday nights when you can go to the Porcelain—”

“
Your
company, Gypsy.” When his fingers slipped over hers on the table top, a flame erupted up her arm. He caressed her hand gently as his sapphire gaze enticed her. “How about sharing a cup of coffee with me tonight after the kitchen's clean?”

“I do have the stove watch tonight.” She blinked and drew away, startled by the longing in her voice.

He caught her elbow to keep her near. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“I—” She wished someone would interrupt. How could the room be so crowded and yet no one intruded?

“If you don't want my company, you need only say so.” His grin became self-deprecatory. “I don't make it a practice to force myself on pretty redheads. I can be reasonable.”

“Can you?”

“When necessary. So do you want me to stay for that cup of coffee tonight?”

No words formed on her lips when he stroked her sleeve, the crisp muslin heating beneath his touch. Each touch lured her closer. As she stared up at the invitation in his eyes, a rush of unfamiliar sensations flooded her with pleasure.

“Good afternoon, Gypsy.”

Farley's voice released her from the sweet tangle of dreams which had no place in her life. Turning away, she smiled weakly at the camp manager. “Good afternoon. How are you?”

Farley glanced at Adam, making no effort to hide his disquiet. She risked a peek over her shoulder. Adam's face was tranquil, as if they had been discussing nothing important.

Listening to the camp manager greet Adam, she reminded herself a cup of coffee at the end of the day was nothing. Only her reaction to his beguiling touch made it more.

Adam asked, “Do you want us to get some coffee for the jacks, Gypsy?”

“Coffee?” She ignored Farley's baffled expression at the squeaked word. Taking a deep breath as Adam grinned, she shook off the cloying delight. “That's a good idea. Farley, do you want a cup?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, I can't. Rose's expecting me. I told her I'd take her for a sled ride this afternoon.” Tapping his hat into place, he tipped it toward her. “Thanks anyhow, Gypsy.”

Hearing another smothered chuckle as Farley elbowed his way to the door, Gypsy glared at Adam.

“I think,” he said with a grin, “your friend Farley is sorry he transplanted his sweet Rose here in the north woods.”

“That's none of your concern.”

“True, but that doesn't stop any of the jacks from talking about Farley and his light lady. And I'm a jack, aren't I?”

She did not lower her gaze from the challenge in his eyes. He wanted her to answer so he could learn what she suspected. Almost laughing, she wondered what he would think if she were honest. She was certain he was no jack.

Motioning toward the kitchen, Gypsy said, “Get Bert and make up coffee for the jacks. I want to talk to Reverend Frisch.”

“All right. Gypsy, how about tonight?”

“I'll let you know later.”

His gaze followed her as she went to where the sky pilot was passing out recent magazines to the men clustered around a table. She could not escape Adam's eyes even when she slipped past a tableful of jacks who were writing home under the minister's supervision. Only when she heard the muted thump of his crutch vanish into the kitchen did her heart slow its frantic beating.

She released the breath that had been burning in her chest and smiled at Reverend Frisch. “Excellent sermon.”

“I saw your yawn,” he answered, laughing. His face bore the scars of years of riding in the north woods cold. The wind had sucked his skin dry, leaving it as rutted as a dead riverbed.

“Now, Reverend, you know I need Sunday to catch up on sleep.”

He chuckled. “You need to convince Farley to hire you an assistant.”

“I've told him more than once I could use a cookee.”

“I'm sure you have.” He put his boot on the end of a bench and leaned his elbow on his knee. In a voice that did not match the boom of his sermons, he asked, “Is there a problem, Gypsy? You keep glancing at the kitchen as if you expect something to catch on fire.”

“Not really. I'm just waiting for the word that the flunkeys have the swamp water ready.” Another prick of guilt stabbed her as she lied to the minister. “Would you like a cup of coffee before you leave?”

He pulled his pipe from a pocket of his denims. Putting it into his mouth, he spoke around the stem. “I could use a bit of your swamp water to char these old bones.” He reached into his pocket again, then grimaced like a guilty lad. “And I'll remember not to smoke. You don't have to remind me about your rules.”