Anything for You

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  To cover her disquiet with her frailty, she asked, “Is that so unbelievable?”

  “In a way. I thought Gypsy Elliott never wanted to be obligated to anyone.”

  “Good intentions seldom work out.”

  “I agree.”

  Her eyes widened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That I need to get to work, honey.” Rising, he let his fingers linger on her shoulder. “I promised myself I’d stay only long enough to be sure you could handle eating your breakfast.” He smiled. “However, I can’t say I mind breaking that promise.”

  “Will you come back soon?”

  Tapping her nose, he said, “You know what a strict master the kitchen is. Without you, it seems everything takes twice as long.”

  “My goodness, Mr. Lassiter! A compliment!”

  “You made it look so easy. I’ll be glad when you get back to work.”

  Her smile faded. “So will I.”

  “Until then …” He scooped up a handful of magazines from the tray. “Reverend Frisch brought these. He thought you’d be getting anxious for something to do.”

  She smiled. “You’re taking such good care of me.”

  “A plot to get you well so we can have apple pie.”

  Gypsy laughed as he left, but sagged against the pillows when the door closed. She could not laugh or sigh or take a deep breath without care. Walking about the room left her so feeble she had to take a nap. She hated being sick and dependent and useless.

  Reaching for a magazine, she smiled when she paged through the used issue of Harper’s Bazar. Farley owed her a favor for taking Adam into the kitchen. The first thing she would ask him for would be a more recent edition of this magazine.

  Looking at the small patterns which could be enlarged, she traced the lines. She had scant need for horsehair crinolines or silk gowns or velvet bonnets, but she longed for such luxuries to brighten the endless drudgery of cooking bread and pies and cakes and biscuits for the loggers.

  She dropped the magazine onto her lap and stared across the room to where her extra skirt and blouse hung on a peg. They were almost identical to the outfit flung over the chair. In the box beneath her bed was the gown she had worn when she arrived at camp. The navy blue wool was the only decent dress she owned.

  After this winter, she vowed to have a lovely frock made, something fine enough to wear in Saratoga. Wearing a dress with wispy organdy sleeves and layers of petticoats, she could be something other than a kingbee cook.

  She smiled as she sipped her tea. She never had time for daydreaming, so she should enjoy this chance. As she closed her eyes, she fell asleep to dream of wearing the elegant gown as she stepped into Adam’s arms.

  “You needn’t stand the stove watch, Adam.” Hank was unusually vehement. “You’ve done too much since Gypsy’s been sick.”

  Adam smiled. “More than she did?”

  “He’s got you there.” Per laughed. “We never thought twice about making Gypsy take her turn.”

  Hank’s jowls lengthened as he glanced at the bedroom door. “Just don’t want you to start ailing, too. We need someone to tell us what to do.”

  “I think you’d do fine if you had to,” Adam said.

  The round man did not seem convinced. With a grumble, he acknowledged, “Maybe.”

  Per slapped Hank’s pudgy shoulder. “Don’t listen to this fool’s yapping. He’s afraid someone might want to put him in charge. C’mon, Hank, my boy. Let’s get a few hours’ sleep.”

  “Wait for me!” called Oscar. He slid the last tray of gingerbread from the oven. “I’ll be just a minute.”

  “Go ahead,” Adam ordered. “I’ll cut that and put it in the larder.”

  The lad nodded. “Thanks, Adam. See you in the morning.”

  The men pulled on their coats and went out into the snowstorm which had settled onto the camp with nightfall. The flakes cleaned the air of the odors from the privies and the stable by the blacksmith’s shop.

  Adam glanced at Gypsy’s door and smiled when he saw no lamplight under it. Although she groused about her convalescence, she had to fight to stay awake.

  Easily he sliced the gingerbread. He lifted the heavy tray and carried it into the larder. When the back door opened into him, he glared at Bert. “Look out!”

  The Englishman closed the door hastily. “Need ’elp?”

  “All set.” He put the tray next to the ones Oscar had brought in. Wiping his crumb-covered hands on his trousers, he asked, “Got that barrel secured out there?”

  Bert laughed. “You sound like Gypsy. She’s always ’arping on us to be sure the lids are on.” Digging into his shirt pocket, he pulled out an envelope. “Think she’s awake?”

  “She’s sleeping. Why?”

  “Meant to give ’er this earlier. Came with the mail over at the wanigan. Guess it’ll ’ave to wait until tomorrow.”

  “I can give it to her.”

  “Tonight?” His eyes narrowed as a lecherous grin tipped his mustache.

  “Tomorrow.”

  Bert shook his head. “Chauncey gave it to me. Said to put it directly in Gypsy’s ’and.”

  Adam smiled. “Why don’t I slide it under her door?”

  For a moment, Bert didn’t answer. Then he nodded. “That should work. I can—”

  “I’ll do it. You’re going to miss the poker game over in the bunkhouse if you delay any longer.”

  “Don’t want to miss that.” He tossed the envelope to Adam, but did not move toward the door.

  Adam knew the flunkey wanted to watch him put the letter under Gypsy’s door. Not that he could fault Bert. Chauncey was particular about letters getting to the right person without anyone else reading them.

  As he bent to shove the envelope under the door, he frowned. He recognized the handwriting on the envelope and bit back his curse when he saw the blurred postmark. Saginaw! The last time Gypsy had gotten a note with this handwriting and this postmark, she had been distraught.

  He pushed the letter partway under the door, then stood, keeping his foot on the small edge still protruding. Folding his arms over his chest, he said, “All set, Bert.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll make sure she’s gotten it when I check to see she’s taken her medicine.”

  Bert grinned. “No one would ’ave guessed she’d be this patient. Seems to listen to you as she’s never listened to anyone else.”

  “It’s been a struggle, but getting her well is worth every hour of arguing.”

  “Arguing? I would ’ave thought you two were getting right cozy by this time.”

  Adam kept his face blank. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what you think.” He walked to the main door. “You’ve worn off ’er rough edges. Thought you were man enough to know when a woman’s sweet on you.”

  “I can’t imagine Gypsy being sweet on anyone.”

  “No?”

  “No!”

  “Don’t ’ave much imagination then.” He chortled as he tapped his hat onto his head.

  Adam gave Bert a wry smile. To think that the other flunkeys were oblivious to his attraction to Gypsy was foolish. When she was in the room, he noticed little else. He enjoyed watching the soft sway of her skirts and the lyrical motions of her hands, even when she was lambasting one of them. Her sparkling eyes enticed him to forget what he was doing and pull her into his arms while he kissed her until she dissolved against him.

  His smile became a scowl when the flunkey went out. Bending, he pulled the letter back from under the door. He slipped a finger beneath the loose flap, hoping he was wrong.

  He was not.

  Glad to hear you are doing better. Didn’t want to think you would die of something as quick as pneumonia. Get out of that bed so I can help you into a pine box.

  With a curse, he thrust the letter back into the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket.

  Someone was threatening Gypsy. Who? Not a single jack had griped ab
out the simple food. Many had offered assistance to get her better more quickly. All their questions had been about how she was faring, not when she was returning to her duties.

  Saginaw.

  The city was not far, not more than a week’s walk. If the threat was related to what he had been sent here to do, he feared Lolly Yerkes’s murder was just a prelude to trouble. He had to get answers.

  Fast.

  Before disaster … and death … struck again.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “What are you doing up?” Adam ignored the flunkeys’ shock at his furious question.

  Gypsy pulled her apron over her head. Tying it around her, she disregarded the loose material bunching at her side. If Adam discovered how much weight she had lost, he would be even more mulish. She did not need his misplaced gallantry.

  “Bert,” she ordered, “get me some flour. The men are going to have apple pie tonight. If—”

  “Bert, wait!”

  She glared at Adam. “Are you going to countermand my orders? I don’t have the strength to waste on arguing with you.”

  “You don’t have the strength to mix pie dough.”

  “You’re wrong.” She lifted the bucket for making pie dough down from the shelf. Although her knees almost buckled, she regarded Adam with defiance. “I’m going to make pies. That’s all I’m going to do other than keep an eye on you gentlemen to be sure you haven’t picked up any bad habits. If you have, get rid of them. Your easy life is over.”

  Grinning, Oscar turned back to the stove to load more wood. Hank chuckled as he peeled carrots. Only Adam continued to glower at her.

  “Do you need something to do, Mr. Lassiter?” she asked.

  “I thought you might want me to tote apples out here for you.”

  Gypsy bit her lower lip. Remembering his tenderness during her recovery, she said quietly, “I’d appreciate that.”

  He smiled. When he put his hands on her shoulders, she almost gasped. He had been circumspect about touching her in the kitchen. Then she realized pretending was needless. She raised her hands to settle on his.

  “Don’t change and be pleasant,” he answered in a near whisper. “I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t snarl at me once in a while. I’d think my Gypsy had vanished.”

  “Your Gypsy?”

  “That’s better.” He grinned and tugged on a loose strand of her hair before swaggering toward the larder.

  She shook her head as she reached a scoop to measure out the flour Bert had set by the table. She hummed a light tune and smiled at Adam when he returned with boxes of dried fruit. He winked as she bent to her work. It was grand to be back in her kitchen.

  Gypsy rolled over as the door to her room opened. The lamp was off, and the fire was burning low in the stove. A shadow slipped through the door and up the bed to drape her in its ebony warmth.

  “Adam?” she whispered, startled.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  He put a tray on the table beside her bed. “I thought you might need something.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Or someone.”

  At the raw yearning in his voice, she stared up at him, but his features were lost in the darkness. Wood crackled in the stove, and light flashed up his face, accenting every strong plane.

  “I need you,” he whispered. He sealed the soft words into her lips with the fire on his. “I want you in my life and next to me tonight.”

  Her gasp of protest was muted as he captured her lips.

  His arms slipped around her. In her ear, he whispered, “I have the stove watch tonight, thanks to my new schedule.”

  “I thought Per took you off the stove watch.”

  “I put myself back on. The other flunkeys agreed when I told them it was your order.”

  “You lied to them!”

  “You’ve told me more than once I’m no gentleman.”

  His fingers led her mouth beneath his. He drew her closer as he caressed her, arousing the unsated passions within her. His mouth against her neck sent waves of desire through her as powerful as a tree crashing to earth.

  Against her hair, he murmured, “You’ve driven me mad with desire. For as long as you wish, be mine. I can’t imagine becoming tired of having you by my side.”

  She pushed him away as she realized nothing had changed. “No! I’m not like Nissa’s girls.”

  He shrugged, shocking her. “If making love isn’t what you long for—although I know you desire me as much as I do you—then let’s eat.”

  “Eat?”

  With a flourish, he pulled the cloth off the tray. He handed her a napkin and served her a generous portion of pie.

  “This is sweet potato pie!” she gasped. “Where did you get sweet potatoes?”

  “Anything is possible if you want it enough.” He put his hand over hers and drew the fork away. “As much as I want you.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, honey,” he murmured before his tongue teased her ear. “You can if you want to.”

  “But I can’t let anyone close to me! When I let someone in my heart, they end up dead.” She stared down at the plate on her lap. “I don’t want you to die, Adam.”

  “Right now, the only thing I’m at risk of dying from is this deep craving to savor every inch of you.”

  Gypsy dampened her lips as his hands covered hers. When he lifted her fingers to his mouth, his tongue toyed with her fingertip. He drew it into his mouth, sucking gently. The plate fell to the floor, splattering pie across the boards, but she paid it no mind when he sat beside her.

  “Be mine,” he whispered as he framed her face with his hands.

  Her breath battered against her chest. She wanted him. She wanted him as she had wanted nothing else in her life. Yet …

  She drew his hands down and clasped them in hers. Swallowing roughly, she said, “Adam, if I share my bed with you tonight, no one must know of it. And it can be only this one night.”

  His brow furrowed. “Why?”

  “Don’t ask. Tonight I’ll be yours—if you will never ask me again.”

  “Gypsy—”

  “No. Don’t say anything but yes or no.”

  “How can I?” Sorrow left his face bare to reveal his longing to hold her. “If I say yes, you’ll be mine, but only tonight. If I say no, I deny us the rapture we could share.”

  “You must choose, Adam.”

  “Do you think I’d tell you I don’t want you tonight?”

  “No.” Asking herself what else she had expected from the man who made no secret of his desire for her, she shivered. She turned away, unable to meet his eyes and the longing they displayed. Slowly she began to unhook the front of her nightgown.

  She gasped as he brought her to face him. In the moment before he claimed her mouth, he whispered, “Be mine, honey.”

  Her hands stroked upward along his flannel sleeves and the brawny muscles beneath them. When she touched his shoulders, his arms swept around her. Held against him, she sensed his escalating desire.

  His tongue darted within her mouth, warmed by her sigh of eager passion. As her fingers sifted upward through his thick hair, he explored each succulent surface of her mouth, enticing her to touch him as sweetly. Tremors burst outward from the slick stroke of his tongue against hers.

  Loosening her hair to fall about her shoulders, he pressed his mouth against the crook of her neck. When he leaned her back into the bed, she slipped her hands beneath his shirt. His warm, rough skin urged her to explore farther.

  Lying next to her, he drew her into his warm embrace. She whispered his name when he tasted the skin at the base of her throat. His hair brushed her skin, stoking the inferno bursting to life within her. With a fervency she did not recognize, she stroked the firm muscles of his back.

  His lips sought along the modest neckline of her loosened nightgown as he drew it lower. His heated mouth caressed the curve of her breast, and she moaned with quickening n
eed. Her trembling fingers fumbled on the buttons of his shirt, for she ached for his skin against her.

  His laugh swirled through her as he lifted her hand from his shirt and pressed her palm against his mouth. Gazing up at him, she wondered how she could have thought he was interested only in his own pleasures. He was maddening, perhaps. Arrogant, without question. Alluring with his ever-changing eyes, undeniably. But she saw his determination to make this night one that would haunt them forever with memories of ecstasy.

  When she began to undo his shirt, a button fell off in her hand. He chuckled and tossed it on the table.

  “I’ll have to get another spool of thread from Chauncey,” she whispered. Her gaze swept along his broad chest as she pushed his shirt along his arms with a whisper of worn material. “Forgive me if I’m clumsy. I don’t know what you want … I’ve never …”

  He rolled her onto her back. Leaning over her, he murmured, “I want rapture, honey, pure rapture.”

  Greedily he took her mouth with his. As she clasped his naked shoulders, she gave herself to desire. She wanted this, and she wanted him. Not just the sweetly romantic wooing she had seen her sister enjoy with suitors, but the mind-emptying passion he could evoke.

  When he grasped the front of her nightgown, he gave a sharp tug. The buttons flew in a dozen directions as it tore. Her half-voiced cry of protest vanished when he traced the top of her chemise with his tongue. As he pulled her nightgown down, his mouth placed sparks along her skin.

  He threw the gown onto the floor as he entwined her legs with his. His hands moved along her, entreating her to press against him. The thin fabric of her undergarments sent the heat of his touch all along her.

  Steering his mouth over hers, she needed no urging to reach for the buttons at his waist. She slid his denims along his hard legs as her eyes delighted in the virile strength of his male body. Tentatively, then more boldly, she touched him, finding the thrill of giving him pleasure. Each texture of his body was so different. Along his chest, a mat of hair teased her fingers to tangle in it, but she followed its narrowing toward his waist to discover far more silken skin which burned beneath her fingers.