Anything for You

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  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.”

  “Why not just bank the embers and let it burn low?”

  “Do you want to wake up an hour earlier to get the fire hot enough to cook breakfast?” Stretching to place a stack of plates on the middle shelf, he smiled. “Gypsy used to watch it herself, but that was too much on top of everything else she does. Now we rotate the chore, and we lose a night’s sleep only once every five nights. Now that you’re here, it’ll be only once every six nights.”

  Adam set more filthy plates in the tub. “Once a week, in other words.”

  Per glanced at him oddly. “The cookhouse doesn’t close on Sunday. Gypsy serves only two meals that day, but one of them is breakfast. At least the flunkeys have every other Sunday off.”

  “But she works every Sunday.” He saw no reason to make it a question.

  “She’s a stickler for everything being right the first time.”

  Adam laughed. “I’ve noticed that. She warned me I’d be working hard here.”

  “You can’t say she asks anything of us she wouldn’t ask of herself. A young gal like Gypsy should be kicking up her heels with some dandy instead of stuck out here with us old jacks, but she’s the best there is.”

  “So everyone says.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you were thinking it.” Per chuckled. “You’ll see, my boy. Trust me, you will.”

  Adam let the gray-haired man chatter on about the camp. He stored away any pertinent facts and any questions he wanted to get answers to tomorrow. He yawned. He would check around tomorrow, if he could catch up on sleep tonight.

  Finally the last dish was clean. He was grateful when Oscar volunteered to dump the dishpan out the back door. Rising, Adam stretched. His cast banged into the bench, ringing hollowly through the kitchen.

  He winced. “I’ll get used to this eventually … I think.”

  Per pointed to a plate on the opposite end of the table. “Why don’t you eat instead of jawing?”

  “Eat?”

  He chuckled. “It’s about time. The rest of us ate hours ago.”

  “That’s right,” seconded Hank, his round belly making him look as wide as he was tall. “We don’t want to overwork you your first night here.”

  “Not overwork?” He bit back his retort when he saw their grins. “I hope you saved me something decent.” His eyes widened in surprise when Hank pointed to a steaming slab of roasted venison and heaping servings of potatoes and vegetables. A flaky biscuit held a pat of melting butter.

  Next to it, Gypsy placed a large cup of coffee and a generous portion of apple pie. “Eat up. We don’t like our cooking to get cold, Adam.”

  “The rest of you ate?” he asked, surprised he had not noticed her come back into the kitchen.

  She laughed. “I’m not as gullible as Farley. I wanted to be sure you could earn your keep before I fed you.”

  He did not need a second invitation. Dropping back onto the bench, he began to eat. On his first bite, he paused and looked over to where Gypsy was bidding the other flunkeys good night.

  “What is it?” she asked when she faced him. She closed the door after Per, who was going out to bring in more logs for the woodbox behind the stove.

  “This is good.”

  “Why are you surprised? The jacks want good food. Cooking here isn’t that different from cooking for a family.”

  He s
tabbed a piece of squash. “Is that what you did before you came here? Cook for a family?”

  “I’ve done all kinds of interesting things.”

  “Like what?”

  Gypsy opened the door again to let in a puffing Per. The old man grinned as he dropped the wood into the box and dashed back out.

  “Do you think you can get back to the bunkhouse by yourself?” She hung her apron on a nail by the larder door. Brushing at a spot on her dark skirt, she added, “I’m sure Per would be glad to help you.”

  “If you want to wait until I’m done,” he said, reaching for the pie, “I can walk you to where you’re going. No one should be out alone on a night like tonight.”

  “Me?” She laughed. “If you’re trying to be a gentleman, Adam, it isn’t necessary. I live here.” She pointed to the door behind her.

  “You live in the cookhouse?”

  “Where did you think I lived? In one of the bunkhouses with the jacks? I don’t think they’d appreciate my bumbling around when I have to get up to start breakfast.”

  He took a bite of the delicious pie as he watched her pour a cup of tea, then set the pot on the warming shelf over the stove. Shaking his head when she offered to refill his cup, he said, “I can’t imagine any man would be angry if you woke him up in the middle of the night.”

  Gypsy’s face burned like the coals at the bottom of the firebox. She had worked hard to gain the respect of these brawny men, and she would not have that respect undermined by Adam Lassiter.

  “I won’t tell you this again. Like you, like every man here, I’m a valued employee of Glenmark Timber Company.” She kept her chin high. That astonishment glowed in his eyes added to her outrage. “Not a man sleeping in those bunkhouses cares whether I’m male or female.”

  “Then they’ve been out in the north woods too long.”

  “They’ve been here long enough to know how important it is that I can make three good meals a day for them. Listen to them. They might fantasize about Farley’s mistress Rose, they might brag about which gal they like best at Nissa’s Porcelain Feather Saloon down the road, but to them and to you, I’m the kingbee cook here. No more and certainly no less.”

  When she paused to take a breath, he jumped in. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  She shrugged, although her shoulders were heavy with fatigue. “Out here, we depend on each other, no matter who we are.”

  “Obviously I stand corrected.”

  A satisfied smile tilted her lips. “Obviously.” Taking a sip of her tea, she said, “You’re beginning to learn.”

  “I assume I still have a lot to learn.”

  She watched him take another bite of pie. When he smiled at the lightly spiced flavor none of the flunkeys had been able to copy, she nodded. “You have a lot to learn, and you’d better learn it fast if you want to stay in my kitchen.”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “That’s what makes us different. I wouldn’t trade this life for any other.”

  “That’s insane. You’d rather work twenty-hour days every day for months on end?”

  She rinsed her mug in the bucket by the stove. “If you give it a chance, in a few weeks you may see I’m right.”

  “Maybe.”

  She laughed. “Get a good night’s sleep.”

  “I’ve been looking forward to a good night’s sleep all day.”

  “Just as long as you’re back here by four.”

  He choked on the last bite of pie. “In the morning?”

  “Welcome to the north woods, Adam.” She rested one hand on the table. “Don’t worry. You’ll be working so hard here you’ll be asleep in no time at all.”

  “On one of those bunks topped with pine boughs and a single blanket?”

  “You’ll be able to sleep anywhere after a full day’s work.”

  “That sounds like an invitation.”

  “It is.”

  His ebony brows rose as he smiled. “I know I’ll be sorry to ask this, but I have to. An invitation to what?”

  “To work hard all day long.” She chuckled.

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “I’ll see you at four.” She straightened and yawned. “Don’t be late.”

  “Or there will be all kinds of trouble?”

  “I won’t have trouble in my cookhouse. Don’t forget that.”

  “That sounds like a threat.”

  “It is.” She met his gaze evenly, all amusement gone from her voice. “Cause trouble, and I’ll see you on the hay trail out of here so fast the speed of your boots will melt the snow.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Through the winter darkness, Gypsy heard the muffled sound of the bull cook blowing the bugle that signaled the beginning of another day for the jacks—but not for her crew. Their day had started more than an hour before, when the winter stars had shown feebly through the kitchen window.

  She urged her flunkeys to a faster pace as the bull cook, who was also the camp’s handyman, shouted into the two bunkhouses. His voice carried on the crisp air, which would not be warmed by the sunrise for another hour.

  “Where do you want this, Gypsy?”

  She whirled to see Adam struggling to balance himself and a tall pot of coffee. That he was trying to do his best impressed her. He was getting about the cookhouse better than she had anticipated. He gave her a lopsided grin as he wobbled. His smile had a boyish charm, but she did not trust it for a moment. She had not been surprised when he had come to work clean shaven except for his mustache. It was too warm in the kitchen for a fuzzy face. Only Bert insisted on wearing a beard.

  “Give me that before you drop it!” she ordered. Taking the pot in both hands, she pointed with her elbow toward the stove. “Help Per with the flapjacks. For the love of heaven, don’t do something which will end up causing us more work.”

  “More work?”

  She heard his annoyance, but ignored it. “I don’t have time to clean up a mess. Go and help Per.”

  Gypsy set the pot in the middle of the closest table in the dining room and called for the flunkeys to finish pouring coffee for the men, who would need it to warm their guts. Outside, snow fell steadily. The day would not be as frigid as last week, when she had been sure the men’s breaths would freeze into a solid wall.

  Going back to the kitchen, she smiled when she noted Adam stood by the stove and held a washtub to collect the flapjacks Per cooked.

  “Bert,” she called with sudden concern, “check that oatmeal. It’s scorching!”

  He pulled the lid off the pot. He yelped as he dropped it, letting it clatter on the stove.

  Shaking her head, Gypsy turned to check the gingerbread Oscar was slicing. Bert worked hard, but he was careless about grabbing a hot pot without a cloth to protect his hands. No amount of warnings seemed to help.

  “Is the maple syrup poured?” she asked.

  “Hank is taking it in.” Oscar scooped up a handful of crumbs and sprinkled them into her hand. “Try it, Gypsy. Tell me what you think.”

  She heard his anxiety and recalled this gingerbread was Oscar’s first attempt at baking for the loggers. He was the only flunkey with the skill and ambition to become a kingbee cook. She tasted the crumbs and grinned. “That’s the best gingerbread I’ve ever tasted.”

  “My granny’s recipe.” Pride puffed out his narrow chest.

  “If you know more of your granny’s recipes, let me know. We’ll try them.”

  With the ease of so many mornings of working together in the cramped kitchen, Per moved aside while Gypsy pulled flaky biscuits from the oven. Her call for more wood to keep the stove hot sent Hank rushing toward the woodbox.

  As she straightened, a steady stare cut into her. She looked over her shoulder. The surprise on Adam’s face was familiar. No one who had not spent time in her kitchen could believe how well it ran.

  She tried to look away, but his gaze held hers. The plop of
flapjacks into the bucket vanished beneath the rush of her heartbeat in her ears. A smile which began beneath his mustache climbed to sparkle in his eyes. She brushed her hands against her skirt, her fingers curling into the thick wool. A question glowed in his eyes, but she could not guess what it was.

  “Gypsy, move aside!”

  She scurried back at Hank’s muttered order. As a flush seared her cheeks, she berated herself. She was no young miss to be overwhelmed by a man’s admiration. If she wanted that, she could have as much as she wanted any day. Checking on the flunkeys’ work, she hoped no one had noticed her idiotic reaction to Adam’s scintillating eyes.

  But Adam had.

  Shaking the thought from her head, Gypsy told Bert to take the last trays from the oven. She heard footsteps coming toward the cookhouse. The loggers were about to arrive. As tradition dictated, she tried to be there to greet them if she could steal time from the kitchen.

  The loggers poured into the dining room. Each man was as strong as the trees he wrestled to the ground. Nodding a good morning, she checked the tables to be sure sugar and salt were set next to the plates. The jacks had no time to wait. A day’s labor on the hill awaited them, and they must not waste a moment.

  She smiled at a young man standing to one side. His gaunt shoulders seemed too narrow, and he pulled at his coat as if trying to get his suspenders back into place. While the other men found their seats as they had for weeks, he hung back, knowing he could not be seated for the first time in her cookhouse without her permission. Here, she reigned supreme.

  Going to him, she said, “I’m Gypsy Elliott, the kingbee cook, Mr.—?”

  “Worth,” he said in a shockingly deep voice. “Bobby Worth, Miss Elliott.”

  “Gypsy will do.”

  He blushed. “Yes, Miss Elliott. I mean, yes, Miss Gypsy.”

  “Why don’t you go over there and sit by Old Vic? He’s the one with no hair. Third table on the left.”