Anything for You

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  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 nort
h 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.”

  “If I didn’t have rules, I’d have Bert and Hank bringing their cheroots into the kitchen. I don’t think the jacks would appreciate ashes in their soup.”

  Gypsy wove through the crowded room. She smiled when she heard the jacks complaining about aching heads after a long night at the Porcelain Feather Saloon. Listening to their outrageous descriptions of how badly they hurt, she suspected they exaggerated their hangovers as they did everything else. Each logger wanted to be the biggest, strongest, fastest. She wondered what prestige there was in having the worst headache.

  The kitchen was quiet. Faint scents of fried eggs and toast were overpowered by the aroma of fresh coffee. Mounds of rising bread sat on the table, but the hectic pace had slowed to Adam reaching for two cups. He grinned at Reverend Frisch and took down another.

  “Oscar volunteered to take the big pot in after he reminded me I shouldn’t be toting it around,” Adam said as he poured coffee from a smaller pot.

  “It’s good he has sense.” Gypsy stirred sugar into her coffee. “Reverend, I don’t think you’ve met Adam Lassiter. He’s new in my kitchen.”

  The minister took the cup of coffee Adam held out. “What happened to you?”

  “A log and I had an argument.” Adam tapped the crutch against his cast. “The log won, and I ended up here working for Gypsy.”

  “Is she working you hard?”

  “Gypsy believes idle hands are the devil’s tool.”

  “Nonsense.” The minister grinned. “She refuses to give the devil his due, but she makes sure Glenmark gets a fair day’s work for his dollar.”

  “I’d say she gets more than a fair day’s work out of us. I’ve been trying to figure out how Hank can stay so fat when she’s been working my fingers to the bone.”

  “Gentlemen,” Gypsy interjected, “if you’re finished talking about me, I have some pie.”

  Reverend Frisch took a deep drink and put his cup on the table. “Sorry, Gypsy. I’ve got to leave. There’s a funeral I have to speak at up the river.”

  “Funeral?”

  “Not an accident,” he said hastily. “The inkslinger at Bradbury Lumber died two days ago. They want me to say a few words over him before they send him home for a decent burial.” He laughed as he pulled on his coat. “What’s wrong, Gypsy? You have less color in your face than the corpse will. It isn’t like you to be spooked like one of these superstitious lumberjacks.”

  She shrugged, but her shoulders were heavy. She had told no one about the note she had received almost a week ago. Forgetting it would be the best thing. No one was going to traipse all the way through these woods to find her. A letter was one thing. Risking freezing to death was another.

  Yet she could not put it out of her mind unless … she bit back the curse she should not speak in the minister’s hearing. Adam’s touch had banished every thought of that letter from her head. That only proved she was as stupid as whoever had written the note.

  “Gypsy?”

  She blinked at Adam’s question. Raising her gaze to his blue eyes, she saw his confusion. Not that she blamed him. No one could understand her fear. No one must, or … she did not want to think of that.

  She forced her voice to be calm as she said, “I’m just tired.”

  “You should let your flunkeys do more of your jobs,” Reverend Frisch chided. “You do too much for a—”

  “A woman?”

  “I was going to say a kingbee cook.” The sky pilot tapped his pipe against his empty cup, then put it in his pocket. He wrapped a brightly colored muffler around his neck and pulled on a garish stocking cap. “But you’re right, Gypsy. No woman—no man, either—should work as hard as you do.”

  “Who else is going to do it?”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Why don’t you let Adam help you? He looks like he can carry his weight.”

  “He can barely tote himself!”

  Reverend Frisch chuckled and patted her shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Gypsy. Don’t let one of these lads convince you to run off with him without giving me a chance to propose.”

  “You, Reverend?” Her eyes widened. “Now, what would your wife say?”

  “She probably wouldn’t be pleased, but I have to admit I have a hankering for more of your swamp water and pie.”

  After the minister left with half a pie wrapped for the trip, Gypsy sat at the kitchen table and stared at her coffee. While he refilled his cup, Adam remained silent. The mumbled voices from the dining room drifted over them as he sat across from her. He pushed the rising loaves of bread aside.

  “Be careful,” she warned.

  “You worry too much.”

  “I don’t want to have to remake those loaves because of your clumsiness.”

  Leaning his elbows on the table, he asked, “When’s the last time you took a break from the work here?”

  “You’ve seen how much time it takes. If I want to keep my job, I have to do what’s necessary.”

  “But you love it?”

  “There’s no need to make that a question.” Swirling the coffee in her cup, she smiled.

  Adam grimaced as he stood and walked to where another pie waited by the window. Cutting a slice, he took a bite before saying, “Maybe for you, but I’m looking forward to the end of winter. Then I can see Saginaw and civilization again.”

  “It’s hard to imagine being in a city with real streets and trees that are for sitting under instead of chopping down.”

  “You’ve never been to Saginaw?”

  Gypsy gave him what she hoped was a withering glower. “Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I’ve been there.”

  “When’s the last time you took a day off?”
r />   “A whole day?”

  He rested his shoulder against the wall and put his elbow on his crutch. “Twenty-four hours, Gypsy. One day. Three meals for these ravenous lumbermen. When’s the last time you took a whole day off?”

  “It’s been a while,” she hedged.

  “How long is a while?”

  Putting her spoon on the table, she rose and went to the flour barrel. “You know how many hours are in a day. Why don’t you figure out how many hours are in a while while you peel potatoes for stew?”

  “You’re just as bad as Farley warned you’d be.”

  She faced him. Until she saw his frown, she had been unsure if he were joking or not. “You didn’t have to take this job!”

  “No? I like the feel of that bonus in my pocket. I sure wasn’t about to give it back because I had to work for an unreasonable dictator.”

  “I’m not unreasonable.”

  Despite his determination not to let her best him with her honed words, Adam smiled. She stood with her hands planted firmly on her slender waistband. Her apron could not hide the feminine lace of her blouse, which accented the pleasing curves of her body. They drew his eyes too often for a man who should be thinking of other things. Her mouth was as warm as her hair, and her jade eyes challenged him to discover which was softer. Not just a hint of a kiss, but a deep, lingering kiss as he tasted every luscious corner of her mouth.

  He started toward her, but remembered his crutch in time. Placing it under his arm, which no longer throbbed from hours of having the wood jammed beneath him, he hobbled to where she stood in the larder doorway. “I hope we can be less cynical than we were the last time we spoke here.”

  “That depends on how you handle yourself.”

  “Or how I don’t handle you.”

  Gypsy did not smile. “I’d prefer you didn’t remind me about that.”