Anything for You

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  He wanted to tell her that was a mistake, because the black wool was pulled tautly across her breasts. He bit back the words, choosing ones that were almost the truth. “I was just checking something out.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “To find out if my kiss is what’s made you so skittish all week.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  He closed the distance between them in a single step, seizing her hand before she could flee. As the setting sun splashed scarlet across her face, he saw fury in her eyes—fury and something else that was most certainly not pleasure. He hoped it was not fear. What could be frightening Gypsy here, so far from anywhere? The answer might be the very one he needed.

  “I’m not flattering myself.” When her eyes grew wide at his suddenly somber tone, he added, “You like kissing me.”

  Her hand striking his cheek shocked him as much as it did her, if he were to judge by how all color fled from her face. He let her hand slip out of his and watched as she took another step back.

  “Adam, I—I’m sorry. I’ve never slapped anyone in my whole life.”

  “Don’t apologize.” He rubbed his cheek and arched a brow. “I suspect I deserved that and more.” With his finger, he tipped up her chin. “What’s got you as nervous as a cat in a kennel? If it’s not me, then what?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t lie very well.” Laughing, he sat back on the log again. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of tinny bells rang through the afternoon. “Don’t get all huffy, Gypsy. If you want to be treated like one of the jacks, then stop acting like the wounded heroine out of a dime novel.”

  She smiled. “And you should stop acting like a burlesque villain.”

  “I thought I was doing a good job as the hero.”

  “I don’t need a hero.”

  “You do if you’re in trouble.”

  She started to speak, but said nothing as she walked closer to the river. Prying a small stone from the snow, she tossed it at the one he had thrown onto the ice. It hit the first stone easily, sending them both toward the far shore. She faced him and said, “I can do things for myself. I don’t need a—”

  Adam leaped from where he was sitting as the sound of bells exploded through the clearing. Hoofbeats and a man’s shout rang in his ears.

  He wrapped his arms around Gypsy’s waist and propelled them both onto the frozen river. Her startled cry drowned out another feminine screech.

  As they hit the ice, her breath burst from her in a painful gasp.

  He sat before they had stopped sliding and gathered her up in his arms. “Gypsy, are you all right?”

  “I’m not sure.” She blinked as if she could not bring his face into focus. Suddenly her lips became a straight line. “You’re crazy! Why did you knock me off my feet?”

  He was tempted to tell her she would not let him sweep her off her feet, but he looked over his shoulder. “No matter what you say, honey, you do need a hero once in a while.”

  Gypsy clenched the front of Adam’s coat as she followed his gaze to where a sled was stopping farther along the riverbank. The tracks of the runners ran over where she had been standing. If he had not pushed her aside, she might have been hit.

  “Who’s driving like a madman?” she gasped, scrambling to her feet. The jacks knew the rules. No racing near the camp. Farley would send this fool down the hay trail for being so witless. If—

  She groaned when she heard a familiar voice call, “Gypsy? Are you there?”

  “Farley!” Adam muttered as he tried to stand. He fell back to the ice, his cast clunking hollowly on it.

  Crossing the ice and jumping up onto the bank, Gypsy demanded, “What in hell did you think you were doing driving like that?”

  Farley looked back at the sled. “Gypsy, watch your language.”

  She wanted to groan again. His warning meant only one thing, the very thing she should have guessed. Rose Quinlan must be in the sled, and Farley must have been showing off for his mistress.

  Picking up the crutch, she tossed it to Adam. “Are you out of your mind, Farley?”

  He held out a hand to assist Adam back up onto the bank.

  Adam disdained it and clambered up to stand beside Gypsy. Putting his hand on her shoulder, he asked, “Are you sure you aren’t hurt?”

  “I’m fine. You?”

  Instead of answering her, he turned to Farley. The camp manager almost cowered when Adam demanded, “What would you have done if you had run her down, Farley? How would you have explained to Glenmark that you’d killed his kingbee cook?”

  “Kill?” she gasped. She looked from Adam’s anger to Farley’s dismay. Had this been more than just an accident? The threatening letter had said death would overtake her and someone she loved by an icy river. Hadn’t it? She could not remember the exact words. No! She would not be terrified by someone’s idea of a bad joke.

  “Look, Lassiter, you keep your nose out of this!” Farley jutted his chin out. “If—”

  “Calvin dearest,” murmured a squeaky voice, “do remember your manners.”

  Gypsy grimaced when Rose Quinlan slipped her arm possessively through Farley’s. Beneath her fur-lined cape, her fashionable gown of a green the color of pine needles had a short coat that clung to her while the slender skirt followed the lines of her trim body. Each step revealed a hint of the lacy petticoat she wore below her tightly corseted waist. With the small hat set at a rakish angle on her upswept blond curls, Rose displayed the wealth showered on her by her besotted paramour.

  “How do you do, Mr.—” She giggled childishly. “Is it Mr. Lassiter?” She held out her hand to Adam.

  “Yes, miss.” Taking her hand, he bowed over it with a grace Gypsy was surprised he could manage while on his crutch.

  “I saw what you did to save Gypsy.” Her nose wrinkled as if speaking Gypsy’s name sullied her in some way. A brilliant smile tilted her lips again. “You are so very brave.”

  “I was fortunate to be able to help.”

  “Think what would have happened if you had not been here.” A fragile shudder barely moved her shoulders. “I quiver at the thought.” Fluttering her eyelashes, she asked, “Are you new here, Mr. Lassiter? I’m sure I haven’t seen you before.”

  Gypsy watched Farley’s eyes become dark slits when Adam continued to hold Rose’s hand. She was torn between wanting to laugh at the camp manager’s obvious jealousy and her own irritation that Adam would kiss her one minute and flirt with Rose the next.

  Her elbow was scraped, and her head ached from where she had hit it on the ice. That must be why she was having such silly thoughts about the threatening note and being bothered that Adam still held Rose’s hand.

  Farley plucked Rose’s fingers out of Adam’s. Gruffly he said, “If no one is hurt, we’ll be on our way. It’ll be dark soon.”

  “I’ll see Gypsy gets home safely,” Adam called as Farley lifted his mistress back into the sled. “No need for you to bother.”

  The camp manager’s back stiffened. His mouth worked angrily as Rose waved and said, “How kind of you, Mr. Lassiter. I’m certain I shall see you again about the camp.”

  “Not if I have any choice in the matter,” Adam murmured, stepping back as Farley turned the sled toward the logging road. Even before it was out of sight, he asked, “Can you walk back to the cookhouse, Gypsy?”

  “Are you going to carry me if I can’t?”

  “I could try.”

  “And we’d end up in a snowbank.” When he frowned, she hurried to add, “Thanks for saving me from Farley’s driving.”

  “Now you owe me a favor.” He brushed snow and ice off his denims. Raising his gaze to lock with hers, he said, “And I intend to collect right away.”

  “Adam …” She wanted to tell him they should not compound one mistake of nearly losing themselves in a feverish kiss by falling victim to pleasure once more. She liked Adam. He was brash, a bit arrogant, a
nd his kisses drained her of every thought but desire.

  But she had learned what happened to those she cared about. Too many had died, leaving her with little but grief and this life far from home. She would not let someone else get hurt.

  Her sister had called her a fool, telling her not to let coincidence ruin her life. Gypsy had been ready to agree, until the threatening note resurrected all her fears. If she even considered falling in love with Adam, she would be doubly foolish—first for letting herself be seduced by his quick wit and quicksilver touch; second for putting him in what might be deadly danger.

  Adam grinned, warning her that, for once, he had not gauged the course of her thoughts. “Don’t worry, Gypsy. You’ll be happy to repay this favor. I saved you. Now I need you to save me.”

  “From what?”

  He hooked a thumb toward the logging road. “From that woman. I have a feeling once Rose Quinlan gets her fangs into a man, he doesn’t get away until she sucks him dry.”

  “What a horrible thing to say!”

  “But true.”

  Gypsy laughed as they began to walk back toward the cookhouse through the lengthening shadows. “Most definitely true. All right, Adam. I’ll protect you from Rose Quinlan with my very life if necessary.”

  He grasped her arm and twisted her to face him. Again his mouth was taut. “I hope, Gypsy, it will never come to that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With luck, you’ll never have to know.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  A week later, shivering in the stinging cold, Gypsy wrapped her arms around her thick coat and listened to the strange silence.

  On Saturday nights, the camp was quieter than when the jacks were on the hill. No hammer struck the anvil at the iron burner’s shop. The shouts from the carpenter’s shop had vanished. She could hear nothing but the wind in the trees.

  She made sure the lids were tightly closed on the garbage barrels. She did not want scavengers rifling through the trash. Raccoons and deer were bad enough, but open barrels would lure wolves and bears. When the camp closed in spring, one of the flunkeys would crack the barrels open, and the foragers would have all the rotten food cleared up before autumn.

  Not that it mattered. She sighed as she walked from the trash dump to look at the somnolent camp, which glittered in the fresh snow drifting from the sky. This would be their last winter here. Next year, they would rebuild Glenmark Timber Company’s camp on land surveyed by the timber cruisers last summer. North along the river, it eventually would become home.

  For the jacks, but not for her. The letter warned her it was time to move on, to leave friendships behind. No one else must suffer because of her.

  “Gypsy? Gypsy, are you about?”

  Rounding the end of the cookhouse, she gasped at the sight of Adam sitting on the sled the flunkeys used to take lunch to the loggers. He wore his hat low over his ears, and the collar of his coat was turned up to protect him from the insidious wind. She waded through the knee-deep snow to where the horse whooshed and stamped its feet.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  He laughed and held out his gloved hand. When she placed hers on it, he brought her up to sit next to him. He patted the uncushioned seat. “This is a sled. That, in front of us, is a horse. Together they’re the way for a too dedicated lady to take a spin about town with the most charming gentleman in the cookhouse of Glenmark Timber Company.”

  When he raised the reins, she asked, “Aren’t we going to wait for him?”

  “Him? Who?”

  She flashed him a smile as she smoothed her dark skirt over her knees and cooed, “Why, the most charming man in my kitchen, Mr. Lassiter. I’m looking forward to meeting this paragon.”

  He captured her hand in his, and his gaze held hers as he lifted her fingers to his mouth. The brush of his mustache caressed her through her gloves.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped.

  “You don’t know? You really do need a night off, Gypsy, if you can’t recognize when a man’s kissing your hand. Or do you allow that only when you summer in Saratoga?”

  When she drew her fingers away, he let them slip slowly through his. “I know quite well what you’re doing. I just wonder if you remember I’m your boss—in the cookhouse or out of it.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means I’d like to be invited before you assume I want to go with you.”

  Instead of answering, he slapped the reins on the horse. The sled’s runners whistled an excited tune against the icy road. “That has nothing to do with your being my boss. That has to do with your being Gypsy.” He grinned. “However, once again, you are correct.”

  “It’s about time you admitted it.”

  “So I guess I should ask if you want to go out for an evening on the town.”

  Laughing, she relaxed. She could not stay vexed at him, even though she should. “Hank has the stove watch, so I suppose I should agree.”

  “It would be a good idea at this point.”

  “Whatever gave you the idea of a sled ride tonight?”

  “I saw how you looked at Miss Quinlan when Farley took her for a ride.”

  “How was that?” She was glad the darkness hid her face; she did not want him to see her amazement. She had thought Adam was the one staring at Rose Quinlan.

  He chuckled. “I’ve seen envy before. I figured you weren’t envious of her silly hat or the fact she was with Farley.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “So it had to be the sled. I thought you wanted to go for a ride.” He rested back against the wooden seat and balanced his heavy cast on the low dash. “At least, I hope that was it. I had to promise Seger that I’d take good care of the sled and the horse. I was sure he’d want a cup of blood in exchange.”

  “Not a pound of flesh?”

  He cocked a single eyebrow at her. “Shakespeare? Who else wasted their youth on a classical education?”

  “I don’t consider it a waste.” She peered along the road. “Where are we going?”

  “I told you. For a spin about town.”

  Again she laughed. “That would be possible only if we had a town to spin about.” When she leaned back against the seat, she flinched as his hand curved around her shoulder.

  “You can trust me,” he murmured. The icy road glistened in the sparse light.

  “Can I?”

  “Sure.” He grinned before looking back at the road again. “If I rile you, Gypsy, you can send me walking.”

  When his fingers drifted along her arm with the warmth of spring, she remained silent. Soft snowflakes floated around them in a silent waltz, and she wanted to enjoy the rare chance to escape from the demands of the cook shack. It was easier to admit that than to imagine how wonderful it would be to lean her head against his shoulder.

  When lights appeared ahead of them, Gypsy was not surprised. There was only one road out of camp and only one building along it. She had passed it a few times in daylight, when the building looked deserted. That had all changed with sunset on a Saturday night.

  Lanterns glowed on a sign proclaiming this the Porcelain Feather Saloon. Tinny music and the low rumble of voices oozed through every chink in the walls. The snow had been trampled by heavy boots. Men congregated near the door, talking and tipping back bottles.

  Gypsy stiffened when Adam pulled back on the reins. She gasped, “We’re stopping here?”

  “Why not?” He reached to kick the brake and scowled when he had to stretch to push it with his right foot. “If you don’t want to go in, we don’t have to. I thought we’d have a drink.”

  “A drink?” she repeated in a choked voice.

  “Why not?” he asked again. A smile inched across his lips as his arm slipped around her waist. “Unless you’d rather …”

  She squared her shoulders. She was no innocent child frightened by the raw side of life. She had heard all kinds of tales about what went on here. Some of the stories might be t
rue, although the lumberjacks could be trusted to exaggerate everything.

  “A drink would be fine, as long as it’s not rotgut,” she answered.

  “Rotgut?” He slid off the seat and reached up to help her. “Where did a fine lady like you learn words like that? Certainly not in Saratoga.”

  She grimaced. “I’m sorry I ever mentioned that place.”

  “Let’s go inside.”

  His broad hands easily lifted her from the seat. When her feet settled into the snow, she was aware of the men watching them. Soon, every logger would know Gypsy Elliott had arrived at the Porcelain Feather Saloon in the company of her newest flunkey.

  She should jump back onto the sled and head home to the cook shack. Her feet refused to listen to good sense. Her hands were just as rebellious as they remained on Adam’s shoulders while she gazed up into his eyes. When his fingers glided around her waist, hers explored the breadth of his shoulders. He pulled her to him, and she gasped at the pressure of his strong legs against her skirt.

  “Let’s go inside,” he repeated in a low whisper. “You’re going to freeze if you stay out here. You’re shivering as if you’re ready to come apart.”

  “Yes, let’s go in,” she answered, although she could not imagine freezing when she stood in his arms.

  As she walked with him toward the saloon, she nodded to the men by the flamboyantly lit door and pretended not to see their astonishment.

  “’Evening, boys,” Adam said.

  The jacks just stared.

  When Adam opened the door, cigar smoke smothered Gypsy. Blinking, she brushed it aside. Her eyes widened.

  A woman sat on a counter near the entrance, her freckled skin bared by the scandalous neckline of her gown. Her chubby knees, dimpled above rolled down stockings, were visible beneath her kilted dress. Gypsy had never seen the owner of the Porcelain Feather Saloon, but she knew the black-haired woman in the outrageous emerald green dress must be Nissa Jensen. The flunkeys had talked many times about Nissa’s wide cigar.

  Not that Nissa was homely. Her round face was apple cheeked as she smiled brazenly and winked at Adam. Her mouth became as round as her eyes when she stared at Gypsy. Gypsy looked past her to see tables scattered in front of the long bar that took up the whole back wall.