Anything for You

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “That is insulting.”

  “You should consider it a compliment. I couldn’t imagine why else you would be in this rough camp.” His finger against her cheek steered her mouth toward his. Slowing the horse to a walk, he held the reins against the dash with his uninjured foot. The scratchy texture of his gloves grazed her face as he sampled her lips.

  She whispered against his mouth, “Did you ever consider I might like this life?”

  “Not then, but you’re persuading me.” Framing her face, he smiled, his eyes sparkling like freshly fallen snow. “You’re persuading me there’s a lot to like here.”

  His words gave her no warning of his lips’ fervor when they found hers again. The light, teasing touch vanished. Demanding, insistent, titillating, his tongue traced her lips with molten honey. When she gasped, overwhelmed by swiftly blossoming desire, he sought deep in her mouth. She quivered in his arms, lost amid the uncontrollable yearning.

  Her breath mingled with his, growing more swift. Boldly his fingers moved along her, leaving a trail of scintillating sparks in their wake. As his mouth delighted her neck, his hand stroked her leg through her thick skirts. Yearning to touch him, aching to be touched, she ran her fingers across the strength of his chest.

  He raised his mouth from hers, and she stared at his lips, which she wanted against her again. Combing her fingers up through his hair, she guided his mouth to hers.

  The sled bounced. Adam pulled away with a curse as he groped with one hand for the reins. Rocking against her, he shouted when the horse neighed with fright.

  The sled tilted. Adam’s arm tightened around her, and he shouted a warning. Gripping his coat, she tried to stay on the seat, but she was flung away, her shriek hanging frozen in the sky.

  Snow billowed around Gypsy when she struck a surprisingly hard snow drift. A weight imprisoned her in the smothering flakes. Choking, she cried out when something heavy glanced off her leg. As pain careened through her, she wiggled her toes. She could not afford a broken leg, too.

  She opened her eyes to see Adam intriguingly close to her. Her arms curved around him when she realized he was holding her down into the snow.

  When he smiled, she whispered, “Is this what you meant when you offered to take me for a spin?”

  “I just wanted to give you a night you wouldn’t forget.”

  “You have.”

  “Tell me, Gypsy.” He pushed her bonnet back. “Tell me you’ll dream tonight of these kisses. Tell me you long for my mouth against you. Tell me, honey.”

  “I’d rather show you.”

  His laugh had a wicked tinge to it. Slowly, making each second a torment, his lips descended toward hers. She feared time had come to a halt as she waited for his kiss.

  Suddenly he sat and waved. Gypsy struggled to hear past the pulse pounding in her ears. Anxious voices warned that some jacks on their way back to camp must have seen the sled tip over.

  She smiled as she was helped to her feet. Assuring the men she was fine, she listened while they teased Adam about his poor driving. The men continued to joke while they righted the sled. She clasped her hands behind her back and made sure her smile remained in place.

  Adam murmured with regret, “We have to offer them a ride back to camp.”

  “Of course.”

  “How about another spin next Saturday night?”

  “Adam …”

  A shout from one of the jacks kept her from having to come up with a lie. While she had been in his arms, alone in the snowy night, she had been able to forget the horror lurking just beyond the trees. Or maybe even closer.

  Tonight was precious, because she could not let it be repeated. She had to push Adam away. She knew too well what happened to everyone she cared about.

  They died.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Farley wants to speak with me,” Adam said as Gypsy stepped aside to let Per lower the trapdoor to the root cellar beneath the kitchen.

  Gypsy nodded. Concentrating as she counted the cups of sugar into the cookie dough, she asked no questions. When she did not hear the clatter of his crutch as he left, she glanced up to see he still stood behind her.

  “Go ahead,” she replied.

  “Just wanted you to know where I was going to be.”

  “And you’ve told me. Go.” She turned back to her work.

  She knew Adam had expected things would be different after their visit to Nissa’s Porcelain Feather Saloon. Things were different. She made sure she never was alone with him in the cramped cookhouse. Only that way could she maintain her control over her cook shack and herself.

  The flunkeys exchanged uneasy glances whenever she cut short a conversation with Adam. She resisted explaining, for she could not forget the precarious position she had put herself in by listening to the longings of her heart.

  Not only was she endangering herself, but Adam. Too many she cared for were now dead. Others had said it was just coincidence. She had tried to believe that, but it was better to put an end to it this way, she told herself over and over as she struggled to sleep.

  But she couldn’t sleep. She was afraid to dream of Adam holding her again. One magical night had altered her in ways she would have been unable to imagine before he drew her into his arms and against his lips.

  “I’ll be back soon, Gypsy.”

  She glanced away before her eyes could betray her yearning. “Hurry back so you can help us load the sled for lunch.”

  Adam swore under his breath. He reached for her, but paused. Embarrassing Gypsy in front of her crew would drive her farther from his arms.

  Tossing his apron onto the bench, he went to the door. He should take his cue from her. He was here to do a job, not to enjoy a flirtation. If he had any sense, he would keep those few kisses as a pleasant memory, find himself a pretty girl down at Nissa’s, and keep everything simple. That had been his style, and it had served him well.

  His cast crashed against a barrel in front of the pegs where their coats hung. With a grumbled curse, he pulled his jacket on and went to see what problem Farley was going to add to his day. Only the truth would get Farley off his back, and he could not reveal that.

  The wind coursed viciously around him as he opened the door. Leaping down into the latest storm, he smiled. Dealing with a suspicious Farley was easier than trying to break through the barrier Gypsy had raised.

  He tucked his hands in his pockets and hobbled through the thick snow, which blew at him with the speed and ferocity of a minié ball. Hunching into his coat, he peered through the storm toward Farley’s office. He could barely see it—not that it mattered. Farley had sent for him to come up to the house.

  He did not like that at all. In the time he had been here, Adam had not seen Farley do any business at his house, nor had he seen him do much in the office. It had not taken long to realize Peabody and Gypsy had their men so well trained that Farley was superfluous.

  That was about the only thing he had found out. The jacks were glad to talk his ear off night and day, but they seldom said anything worth listening to. They bragged; they talked about work; they were wistful about their families waiting beyond the north woods.

  None of that helped him. He had hoped he might find something out at the Porcelain Feather Saloon.

  He smiled through the stinging snow. If Gypsy discovered he had had an ulterior motive for asking her to join him on that sled ride, she would be even more furious at him. He had not guessed when he took her there, hoping she would create a diversion, that she would knock Lolly off her feet in his defense.

  Maybe he had been the one distracted. He had been too anxious to get Gypsy out of there and off somewhere secluded. He was not sure how much time he had to get this job completed, but every minute he spent thinking about Gypsy kept him from doing what he was supposed to and getting out of this icy misery.

  The trees barely slowed the wind, and he was half frozen by the time he reached the house, set a quarter mile from the camp. Stamping the
snow off his boot and more cautiously from the moccasin over his cast, he crossed the narrow porch to the front door. His eyes widened when he saw the etched glass oval set in it. A fancy door was an affectation here in the north woods where no one ever called on neighbors. There were no neighbors.

  At Adam’s knock, the door opened. The swish of rose silk and lavender perfume swept over him as Miss Quinlan said, “Mr. Lassiter, do come in before we both catch our deaths of cold.”

  “Thank you.” He stepped inside, wondering why he had not considered Farley might not answer the door himself.

  “May I take your coat, Mr. Lassiter?”

  “Thank you.” Shrugging out of it, he added, “Let me hang it up. It’s cold and not too clean.”

  Her laugh was as sharp as icicles breaking off the roof. “How wondrous to find a gentleman in this barbaric place! You aren’t like the others who come here.”

  “Others?”

  “The jacks my dear Calvin has come in to help maintain the house. You didn’t think I cleaned this myself, did you?” She gave him no chance to answer as she swayed to a door on the right. “Do come and sit, Mr. Lassiter.”

  “I can wait for Mr. Farley here.”

  “Nonsense.” She grabbed his sleeve. “He’s shaving.”

  “At this hour?” he asked before he thought.

  Miss Quinlan gave him a knowing smile before leading him into the parlor. Again his eyes grew wide.

  The black maple parlor set with its matching marble-topped tables was complemented by a piano, which sat in one corner. He could not imagine how much it had cost to tote that piano all the way from Saginaw.

  As his boot sank into the thick rug, he thought about the spartan quarters where the jacks slept on pine boughs. Gypsy’s room was not much fancier, but here Rose Quinlan lived as well as if she were in Chicago or … he smiled. Or Saratoga.

  Sitting gracefully on the settee, which was covered with pink brocade, Miss Quinlan purred, “Please join me, Mr. Lassiter.”

  He considered arguing his clothes were not meant for such delicate fabric, but he could tell by her narrowed eyes she would not accept no for an answer. Going to the sturdier-looking chair, he started to sit.

  “No,” Miss Quinlan chided, “I said please join me.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Right here, Mr. Lassiter.”

  Adam almost laughed at his hesitation. He had not been worried about a wrestling match on a parlor settee since before he left home for the first—and last—time. Then he had thought only of stealing a kiss instead of acting like a frightened virgin about to be set upon by a lascivious rogue.

  He wiped his hands on his denims and held them up. Ashes and grease clung to his skin. “I don’t think you’ll want me soiling your pretty furniture, Miss Quinlan.”

  She rose with that hushed whisper of silk. Laughing, she said, “You wear the badges of your work with pride.”

  “I’m not sure pride is the proper word.”

  “I see you’re serving the jacks chocolate cake today.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “You have chocolate on your shirt.” She reached out. When he stepped back, she smiled. “I was just going to show you where.”

  Adam returned her smile, but coolly. This woman was as subtle as the blades of a jack’s saw. “Really?”

  “Yes, it’s right here on your shirt.” She slowly ran her hands over her right breast. “Right here,” she whispered.

  He brushed his hand against his shirt, trying to ignore her candid invitation. No wonder Farley kept her up here away from the camp. If she toyed with every jack as she was with him, she would create all kinds of trouble.

  “Thanks.”

  Miss Quinlan’s eyes widened at his gruff tone, but they narrowed again as she murmured, “And I can see you’ve been making bread.” She stepped closer and gazed up at him. “I can just imagine your strong hands kneading that bread, massaging and shaping it—the softness beneath your palms as you hold it under you.”

  This woman knew every trick to entice a man into her arms. He clasped his hands behind his back and smiled. “To be honest, Miss Quinlan, the closest I’ve come to kneading bread is to watch Gypsy do it. Her hands—”

  “Gypsy!” Her voice became sharp.

  “Gypsy is here?” The question came from the hallway.

  Miss Quinlan’s face altered again into a simpering smile as she rushed to Farley’s side. Linking her fingers with his, she murmured, “Did you send for her, Calvin dear?”

  “I sent for—” He straightened his false collar. “Oh, Lassiter, you’re here. Don’t just stand there. Come with me.”

  For once, Adam was glad to do as Farley ordered. He did not look back as he followed the camp manager to a small office behind the parlor. No need—Rose Quinlan’s fury billowed around him like a cold wind.

  Her animosity toward Gypsy was a surprise. Rose Quinlan was living in luxury here, doted upon by her lover, while Gypsy slaved day after day to keep the jacks fed and then retired each night to spartan quarters. As he closed the door to Farley’s small office, he wondered if he finally had stumbled upon the clue he needed.

  Cold burst into the kitchen, and Gypsy glanced up in surprise as the door struck the wall.

  “Gypsy!” Bert’s shout reverberated through the cook shack, freezing the flunkeys. The door slammed shut. He reeled to where she was spooning cookie dough onto long sheets. Panting, he leaned on the table.

  “What is it?”

  “Accident on the ’ill! It’s—it’s—”

  Gypsy clutched her hand to her chest, wondering if she could force her breath to escape. It burst out in a spurt of coughs. She waved aside Bert’s offer of assistance as she grabbed a cup of tea and downed a mouthful.

  “I’m fine.” That was a lie, but it did not matter. “Who?”

  “Green’orn. Worth.” Through his beard, he choked out, “Tree toppled on ’im. Peabody’s all adither up there. ’E sent a message. ’E needs ’elp. What can we do?”

  Gypsy snapped out of her horror to order, “Pack what food is ready for lunch. Bert, get the sled.” She did not wait to see if the flunkeys would obey. She knew they would.

  She pulled out the large canisters for the coffee and poured what was ready into them, then filled the rest with tea.

  Her crew worked in silent perfection. She wondered why she had let Farley insist that Adam work in the kitchen. Things ran more smoothly without his cast clunking about. Later she should demand Adam be given a different job.

  She should, but she would not.

  Adam was not the problem. Her reaction to him was. If she could treat him like the other men, the situation would right itself in no time. A stolen kiss or two or even more in the midst of a gentle snowfall should not make her falter in her job.

  Pushing the troubling thought aside, she fished a key out of a buttoned pocket in her skirt and unlocked the cupboard behind her bedroom door. She lifted out three bottles and relatched the cabinet. Although she had put the bottles in there at the beginning of the logging season, she had hoped no emergency would require her to get them out. No one spoke as she came back into the kitchen. She poured the whiskey into the canisters holding coffee and twisted on the lids.

  She frowned when she saw the small amount of food on the table. They had finished washing the breakfast dishes less than an hour before. No one had guessed they would need food so quickly and under such horrible circumstances.

  Pulling her coat over her shoulders, she rammed her hands into the sleeves even as she was lifting a canister. Per did not bother to put on his jacket as he picked up the box of sandwiches. As he followed her, he was silent.

  Like a parade of ants, they carried the food to the sled. The men listened to her instructions and obeyed without comment. Wishing she could let someone else think in the midst of the numbing pain, she tried to concentrate on what must be done to help Peabody and his crew.

  A shadow draped over Gypsy as she adjusted the boxes so
they would not tip off. She did not need to turn around. With a sense she could not name, she knew Adam stood behind her. She longed to throw herself in his arms and forget all this in his kisses.

  She could not. She could not give in to her grief now, not when Peabody and his men were depending on her.

  “Gypsy …”

  The tenderness Adam put into her name nearly undid her. Blinking back tears, she used irritation to conceal her despair. “Either step aside or help me.”

  “What’s happened?” When she explained, he said, “Coffee won’t do much good.”

  She walked back toward the kitchen. “It’ll help when it’s laced with whiskey.”

  “Gypsy, you know Farley’s rule about alcohol in camp.”

  “Don’t quote regulations to me.” She lifted two more of the canisters from the table. Stamping past him, she shouted, “I reckon a little whiskey for medicinal purposes won’t break any rule.”

  Adam cursed as he tried to keep pace with her, hating the cast that slowed him down. “Have you sent for Farley?”

  “Why? What could he do?” She faltered and readjusted the heavy canisters in her hands. “Bert will let him know.”

  “He should be here.”

  She stopped in front of him. “Look,” she said, her lips taut, “if you want an excuse to pay another call on him and Rose, go. Just get out of my way. The jacks need me.”

  He stepped aside. She was right. Farley would be useless here. His ears still rang with Farley’s harangue, fueled by the camp manager’s frustration that Adam would not explain why Glenmark had written that letter. Adam had warned Glenmark it would create all kinds of questions, but Glenmark had insisted, not wanting anything to prevent Adam from doing his job.

  And Rose Quinlan? He swallowed his laugh. She seemed interested only in causing trouble.

  When Gypsy coughed as she put the last of the containers on the sled, he frowned. She might have caught cold during their visit to Nissa’s saloon. Vowing to keep an eye on her, for she would push herself too hard, he shoved the boxes more securely into place.