Tell me the truth. Tell me the murderer can’t be you. Tell me why you’re lying to me.
“Help him, Gypsy,” he urged. “I’ll watch the soup.”
She nodded. When she put her hands on Oscar’s too skinny shoulders, he threw his arms around her waist and pressed his face against her apron. His sobs burst straight from his gut. Not the soul-wrenching weeping of an adult, not the pitiful keening of a heartbroken child, but a combination of both. She stroked his hair. Bert, Hank, and Per lowered their eyes as if ashamed to show their grief.
Again she glanced at Adam. The compassion for Oscar on his surprisingly candid features shocked her. Wanting to demand why he refused her the same, she bent and gently brought Oscar to his feet.
She hated what she had to say, but a mountain of work awaited them. “Hank, take Oscar to the bunkhouse. We can cope for an hour or two without him.”
The obese man nodded and put his arm around the lad. As soon as the door closed behind them, she told the others to unload the sled. She went to the stove where Adam still stirred the soup.
“Adam,” she said as she took the spoon, “you should know that Nissa came here expecting to accuse the man who had the stove watch.”
“Only expecting to?”
“Yes, only.” She let the fragrant steam hide her face in a heated flush. “When she discovered you had the watch, she knew a man with a broken ankle wouldn’t be able to go that distance in the amount of time between when I go to sleep and wake up.”
“Do I owe you a thank-you for defending me?”
She started to face him, but his rigid hands on her shoulders warned he was as distressed by the tidings of murder as she was. “No, I didn’t defend you. There was no need.”
“But someone murdered her.”
“Yes.”
Gently he turned her to him. “Gypsy, be careful.”
“Me?” She almost laughed, then realized he was serious. The fervor in his blue eyes could not be feigned. “Why should I be worried?”
“Bert and Oscar were pretty upset about her last week.”
“You think one of them killed her?” As cold flooded her, she shook herself out of his hands. “That’s ridiculous! I spoke to them here last night.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes, both of them. Are you disappointed, Adam, that one of the flunkeys isn’t a murderer?”
He swore under his breath. “The sooner you understand how dangerous this could be for you, the sooner you’ll realize this isn’t a joke.”
“I still don’t understand why you think I should be worried.” She was inured to such fear. She tried to ignore the thought that she might have become too accustomed to it.
“Here’s why.” He lifted her hand and slapped something on it.
She stared at a small carving knife. Looking at an empty slot on the wall where the knives were kept, she said, “I don’t need this.”
“Apparently someone else didn’t need it, either, judging from where I found it.”
“Where?”
He smiled grimly. “Outside the door this morning. Someone took that knife last night. Not only did he take it, but he came back with it. Why?”
With a shiver, she walked to the storage rack and put the knife in its place. “I have no idea.”
“None? Last night, you were as skittish as a rabbit with a hound on its tail. What’s going on here?”
“I could ask you the same!” she shot back. “You’re out wandering around in the middle of the night after some phantom. Now word comes that a woman’s been murdered. Are they connected somehow?”
He shook his head. “You’re asking the wrong man, Gypsy. I have no idea what’s going on.” Crossing the room, he grasped her elbows. “All I know is this is just the beginning of trouble.”
“I agree,” she whispered, afraid to speak the truth aloud.
He brought her eyes to meet his. Her heart faltered on its next beat. Anger, frustration, and curiosity burned in his eyes, but none of them were aimed at her. Perhaps the curiosity, she had to admit as his fingers splayed across her cheek.
She closed her eyes. In his arms, she found a sanity that was swiftly disappearing in the rest of her life. As his fingers sifted upward to tangle in her hair, she guided his mouth to hers. Once she had needed his kiss to help her forget past pain. No longer. She ached for that fiery caress.
His tongue outlined her hungry lips, teasing each eager inch, and she tasted the warmth within his mouth. His arms tightened around her as hers curved along his back.
Dancing together and away like two fencing masters, their mouths created a melody that could be heard in her depths. As his mouth glided along her neck, his fingers stroked her side, outlining her with a flush of delight. Her leg rubbed against his as he pressed her to the wall. Each silken hair on his skin was an individual caress, threatening to sweep her mind from her.
She moaned his name when his fingers circled the curve of her breast. His other hand cupped her chin and tilted her head back. Letting his gaze hold her, she quivered before the onslaught of sensations she could no longer govern. His fingertip roved along her, tracing a path until she arched toward him.
When her hands stroked his chest, his heartbeat leaped. In the second before his mouth touched hers again, he whispered, “One other thing I know. I intend to stop this murderer before you can become his next victim.”
“Me?” she choked, torn from the pleasure by fear. “Why me?”
“You tell me.”
She pushed him away, aching anew that he would use his kisses to entice information from her. “You tell me. After all, having a murderer after me is your idea.”
His strong hands caught her and spun her back to him. The softness was gone from his face. “Ignore the facts, if you wish, Gypsy, but one woman is dead. Will you be next?”
CHAPTER TEN
Whistling a lighthearted melody did not lessen the predawn cold, but the tune cheered Adam as the icy wind slapped away the last remnants of sleep. It had been hard to rest in the aftermath of the murder at the Porcelain Feather Saloon.
Farley had been very obvious by his absence. Adam’s whistling took on a minor key as he wondered if the camp manager had spent the night devising a list of excuses for Glenmark. The company’s owner would want answers. The killer had been able to sneak into the brothel and smother a woman without anyone seeing him.
No answers.
No clues.
Nothing out of the ordinary but the knife he had returned to Gypsy. His hope it would frighten her into leaving had been futile. Not that he blamed her, for almost anyone could have swiped the knife. It was chaos at mealtimes. Chance had allowed him to find the knife, but he was not sure it had anything to do with Lolly’s murder. If it did not, then there were more questions which had no answers.
The cheerful lilt returned to his whistle in spite of the snow clinging to his boot and moccasin as he hobbled toward the cookhouse, each step a labor. With a wry grin, he looked down at his leg. Soon he could be rid of the cast, but he had to find a way to stay in the cookhouse. He liked the way Gypsy softened like melting butter in his arms, and he was getting close to something … and someone.
Ahead of him, Bert and Oscar were walking with an ease he had forgotten. Their light voices drifted to him as they gossiped with Per. He frowned. Hank must have the watch. Hank often let the fire die and failed to mix the flapjack batter. It would be a longer morning than usual.
As he had so often in the past month, he asked himself what he was doing in this isolated camp. His idea that this assignment might be fun had dwindled into disbelief.
“Fun?” he grumbled to himself.
“What’s that?” Oscar called back. The lad dropped away from the others to walk with him. Keeping his skinny hands in the pockets of his coat, he shuffled through the snow.
Adam grinned. “I was just trying to decide why anyone would want to start the day at this ridiculous hour.”
“I like the
quiet.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.” He sighed. “Sometimes a man can hear only when nothing else is going on.”
Adam draped a companionable arm around the lad’s slight shoulders. “Are you all right?”
Biting his lower lip, Oscar nodded. “I went out behind the bunkhouse. Didn’t want the others to see me blubber like a baby.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a man crying when he’s got a reason to cry.”
“Have you?”
Leaning on his crutch, he faced the younger man. “More times than I like to remember. When I fought in the War of the Rebellion, I lost many friends. I mourned—blubbered like a baby, as you put it.” He stared into Oscar’s face, which was gray in the faint light of the coming dawn. “To be honest, if I had a man reporting to me who didn’t cry when one of his buddies died, I got rid of him. A man with no tears has no heart, and a man with no heart has no place for courage.”
“I never thought of that.”
The good humor returned to Adam’s voice as he clapped Oscar on the arm. “It’s not something anyone wants to think about. Let’s think about breakfast instead. I could use a cup of swamp water.”
Oscar held the door while Adam hoisted himself into the cookhouse. The warmth embraced him as he pulled off his coat.
Adam limped away from the cold breath of the wind edging past the hinges. As he snatched a cup from the shelf, he asked, “Where’s Gypsy? I thought she’d have the coffee going.”
Hank yawned as he tried to hitch his trousers to his suspenders, which were inches too short to reach across his girth. “She ain’t out yet.”
“Not out yet?” Adam went to the table, where the makings for flapjacks waited. He began to stir flour into the batter, but glanced at the closed door. No hint of lantern light inched under it. In the weeks he had been working here, he could not recall a single time Gypsy was not working by the time the flunkeys arrived.
“’E’s just glad Gypsy didn’t find ’im sleeping on the job again.” Bert flashed a superior grin at Hank, who was struggling to button his trouser flap.
“Stop twittering like a blasted British songbird!” Hank snapped.
“If Gypsy wants to sleep late one morning,” Adam said, “I don’t think you should wake her with childish quarrels. Hank, get a slab of bacon. Per, you and Bert can start these flapjacks while I try to brew up the coffee.”
“Gypsy always does the swamp water,” whispered Per in awe.
“She can’t brew it if she’s not here. A hundred tired jacks aren’t going to be happy if there’s no coffee. Do you want the cookhouse door nailed shut while they look for another crew and you walk?”
The men grumbled, but turned to their tasks. Adam hid his disquiet while, again and again, he gave orders as the gray of dawn inched across the eastern sky. Through the walls, he could hear the rumble of voices as the jacks emerged from the bunkhouse. He frowned. Gypsy might oversleep a few minutes, but he could not imagine her staying abed once the loggers were awake.
Per flipped fluffy pancakes into the bucket on the table. When Adam brought another bowl of batter, the gray-haired man asked, “Why do you think she’s not out?”
“I was going to ask you the same.”
He looked at the door. “She’s never late. Never! First that girlie at the Porcelain Feather. Now Gypsy—”
Hearing panic in the old man’s voice, Adam put the bowl on the table. He said nothing as he went to Gypsy’s door. Behind him, silence warned the other flunkeys were watching.
He rapped on the door. Time slowed while he waited for an answer. Hearing apprehensive mumbles behind him, he knocked again.
“If she can’t answer—”
He snapped, “Don’t jump to conclusions, Oscar. She may be exhausted. She’s been working hard.”
“She always works hard,” answered Hank as he came in from the dining room, “but she’s never overslept.”
Adam turned back to the door to keep the other men from guessing he shared their dismay. The scent of hysteria reeked through the room, obscuring the aromas of muffins and coffee.
The door squeaked as he opened it. He frowned when he saw the room was dark. “Gypsy?”
When he got no answer, he closed the door behind him. He did not care what the other flunkeys thought. The sparse glow from the small stove did not reach the bed. He banged his toe against a chair, but caught it before it toppled. He cursed his cast as he hobbled toward the bed.
Vibrant, auburn hair was faded to a dull color on Gypsy’s pillow. One slender hand rested on her chest, which was covered by a simple flannel nightgown. Its open collar had parted to reveal the lace of her chemise. Her other hand clutched the blankets as if struggling against an invisible demon. Her face was strained and flushed.
Adam listened to the rasping of her labored breaths. Again he cursed as he touched her burning forehead. Gently he lifted her hand from her straining chest and put his fingers over her heart. It raced as if she had run for miles. When she coughed feebly, she moaned, but did not waken.
He growled a curse as he drew the blankets around her. He wanted to throttle Hank for letting the cookhouse grow so cold, but Gypsy was as much to blame. She had refused to rest when the coughs started.
He threw a few sticks in the stove, then went to the door. “Bert!” he called. “Go to Farley’s house and tell him we have to have a doctor right away!”
“Gypsy is—”
“Very sick! Go, man!”
Bert backed away, disbelief on his face. “’Ow sick?”
“I can give you an answer, but you risk her dying because you’re dawdling!” Adam clenched his hands against the door, then said more calmly, “Sorry, Bert. Just hurry.”
“Sure thing.” He ripped his coat off its peg. “Don’t want Gypsy to die like this.”
“The rest of you serve breakfast,” continued Adam. “Don’t let any of the jacks learn Gypsy’s ill.”
“If—”
“Serve breakfast, Oscar!” Seeing the young man’s horror, he added, “You know that’s what Gypsy would tell you to do.”
“Don’t make it sound like she’s dead!”
As Oscar backed away, then whirled to do as ordered, Adam’s fist struck the doorframe. He scanned the room. It seemed so empty without Gypsy. Until now, he never understood that her sharp commands and gentle smiles held the flunkeys together.
He closed the door and sighed when he noticed how her weak thrashing had loosened the blankets. He tucked the covers over her again and kissed her hot forehead. “You’re going to get well, Gypsy Elliott. This is one fight we’re going to fight together, whether you want my help or not!”
Farley knocked his boots against the log step of the cook shack. Why did everything happen at such an unreasonable hour? He had planned a leisurely breakfast with Rose and perhaps an hour or two back in bed. Instead, that tongue-tied Cockney had come pounding on his door with a message from Adam.
Sick? An ailing kingbee cook was the last thing he needed. First the accident on the hill, then the murder at the brothel—Glenmark was going to have his hide, but his boss could flay his backside only if there was anything left after the jacks discovered there was no breakfast waiting.
He brushed snow from his black wool coat when he stepped into the kitchen and shook melting flakes from his hair in a shower about him. That done, he shoved his cigar back into his mouth and hid his surprise that the room smelled of fragrant coffee and fresh flapjacks.
Pushing past the flunkeys, he walked resolutely to Gypsy’s room. He was reaching for the door when it opened. Startled, he backpedaled a pace and swore under his breath. He should have guessed Lassiter would be mixed up in this. No doubt Lassiter saw this as his chance to gain control here.
He ordered, “Step aside, Lassiter. I want to see her.”
“Have you sent for the doctor?”
“Mr. Glenmark’s policy is that a doctor is necessary only in an emergency. That’s
something I decide.”
Lassiter blocked the door with his crutch. “She doesn’t need you bringing in cold air and heaven knows what else.”
“Move aside.”
“No.”
Farley pursed his lips in fury. Aware the rest of Gypsy’s crew were listening, he clamped his teeth on his cigar. “Step aside, Lassiter, or you’re done here.”
“Fire me if you wish, but I’m not moving.” He folded his arms on the ragged cloth over the top of the crutch. “I suggest you get a doctor here. If that woman dies because you did nothing, how long will it take Glenmark to send you packing? Camp managers are easier to find than good cooks.”
Farley’s mouth worked, but no words spilled out. It was true. Mr. Glenmark would be furious if something happened to his prized kingbee cook. Farley would never find another position in the north woods. He had worked too hard to have his career destroyed by a petite dictator who had chosen the worst time to get sick.
“What’s wrong with her?” he demanded.
“A doctor could tell you for sure.”
“There’s no doctor here.”
“There would be if you’d send for one!” Lassiter retorted. “Why don’t you stop arguing, Farley, and send someone for the doctor before she dies?”
“Dies?” Fear froze his gut. “She’s really that sick?”
“Do you think I’d have asked for a doctor otherwise? It might be pneumonia, but only a doctor can tell for sure. She won’t wake.”
Still unsure, Farley asked, “Have you tried—”
“I’ve tried everything short of waking her with a kiss like Prince Charming’s.” Exasperation flared through his voice. “What else do you need to know before you’ll send for the doctor? Or do you want to come in and watch her die?”
Hearing uneasy rumbles, Farley strode toward the dining room door. He heard his name called and asked, “What is it, Lassiter?”
“Next time you come, leave that cheroot outside. No smoking in the cookhouse.”
Hank chuckled as the others turned to hide their grins.
Anything for You Page 13
