Anything for You

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  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. “I
s 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.

  “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.”