Anything for You

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against her folded arms. She wanted to forget the past, but the memories refused to be forgotten.

  “All alone?” Adam’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  “It would appear so, Adam,” she said, straightening.

  “Busy?”

  “Why?”

  “I thought you’d like an escort to the hurrah, Gypsy.”

  As she looked up, her answer died unspoken. From the first time she had seen Adam Lassiter, she had been unable to ignore the rugged planes of his face. Brawny men were hardly the exception in the Glenmark Timber Company camp, but something about Adam always drew her eyes.

  When he walked to where she was sitting, his boots struck each board resoundingly. It was a noise she was accustomed to, but the sound usually came in a storm of hungry loggers. He smiled as he rested his elbow on the table so his eyes were even with hers.

  “I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” she murmured.

  “Did you think Farley would tell me to walk?”

  “Not really, but he was mighty peeved after he stormed out of here.”

  “I’d say he’s pleased with me at the moment.”

  “Pleased?” His cheerful words and the twitch of his lips warned he was about to send her life spinning out of control again. “What makes you say that?”

  “Farley’s appointed me your cookee.”

  Gypsy stood and glared at him. “How dare he? I don’t need an assistant.” Pulling off her apron, she slammed it onto the table. Adam leaped back to avoid the whipping apron strings. “If that’s how he wants it, I’m walking.”

  “You quit? Don’t be ridiculous, Gypsy.”

  “Do you think Farley’s going to hire you as kingbee cook? It’s time he learns the truth—that you can’t break an egg without spending an hour hunting for the shells.”

  “Gypsy, be reasonable.”

  “Now you sound like Farley! He always has a soft spot for those who fawn over him.” Fiercely, she stated, “I’ve had enough of this.”

  When he stepped in front of her, she tried to push past him. He caught her arms and halted her with the ease of muscles strong enough to wrestle logs. Anew, she wondered why he stayed in the kitchen when he could be earning higher wages on the hill. The answer always came back the same.

  Adam Lassiter was not a lumberjack.

  As he stroked her stiff arms, yearning threatened to swallow her anger. Her gaze rose along his wool shirt. No beard hid the strength carved into his face’s rigid lines. His blue eyes were as heated as a hazy summer sky.

  His slightest tug drew her to him. The tips of his boots brushed her shoes, and his sturdy chest was only inches from the lace on the front of her blouse. She should say something, anything. She could not.

  His arm encircled her waist and brought her against him. She sighed with delight. Although he was not a man of the woods, he possessed its wild ferocity. She could imagine his fierce eyes in a beast amid the trees.

  A shiver cut through her. She must not let passion blind her. “Adam,” she whispered. Her voice betrayed her, trembling with the need surging within her.

  “Hush, honey.” He bent to tease the whorls of her ear with his tongue. Each flick burned like a brand as her fingers clenched on his shirt.

  Unable to fight the melded power of their desire, she clung to him while his lips traced a path along her throat. Even that was not close enough, for the fabric separating them offered a hint of the luscious sensation of skin against skin.

  With a moan, she pulled away. His hands tightened on her for a half second, then released her. She backed away, gasping, “You can’t convince me to accept Farley’s dictates this way!”

  “Do you really think that’s why I want to kiss you?”

  Gypsy refused to be beguiled out of her anger. It was all that kept her from being tantalized by his kisses. “I don’t know how you coerced him into giving you the cookee job when he thinks you’re trouble.”

  He laughed, the cold sound penetrating her more sharply than the winter wind. “Don’t you understand? He didn’t promote me because he likes my baby blues. He made me cookee to repay you for risking yourself on a log.”

  “That proves how stupid he is!”

  “It does.”

  Gypsy choked back her retort at his startling agreement. When his finger stroked her cheek, she closed her eyes. She could not fight the craving to be in his arms.

  “Honey,” he whispered, “you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “Question?” Her eyes opened to find his face only a shadow’s distance from hers.

  “Why don’t we go over to the hurrah? Why don’t you let me take you out in style?”

  She blinked, startled because she had expected—had hoped—he would say something very different. He would have in her dream.

  For the love of heaven, she must remember that was only a fantasy brought on by her fever. Or had it been the craving of her heart to belong to someone? Groping for her coat, she sought to silence her own doubt.

  He smiled as he plucked her coat off the hook. Holding it so she could slip her arms into it, he laughed. “You have to grow a bit more, honey.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve reached the size I’m meant to be.”

  “Exactly perfect to be in my arms.” He teased her nape with gentle nibbles until she moaned with the craving for his lips on hers.

  Turning, she led his mouth to hers. Everything she wanted was in that kiss, but it was not enough. Each touch made her ache for more.

  As her fingertips touched the warm skin beneath his upturned collar, he whispered, “We need to get going, or we’ll be late for the hurrah.”

  “It’s so cold out.” She should not be saying this, but he had honed her longings to obsession. She wanted to discover if her dream could come true.

  “I think we should get going before it starts snowing again.” His words were slow, as if they were distasteful.

  “But, Adam—”

  “Let’s go.” He dropped her bonnet on her head and laughed. The sound was as strained as his voice.

  She fumbled as she tried to tie the ribbons. Was she mad to throw herself at Adam? It would be better this way. A few kisses and nothing more except good-bye. It would be better. Wouldn’t it?

  “All right,” she said. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to smile. “It’s about time you kept your promise to give me a night out, Mr. Lassiter. A gentleman never goes back on his word.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.” He lifted her down from the door as if she were dismounting a horse. Pulling the door shut, he held out his hand. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the company of a fine lady, Miss Elliott. I trust you’ll correct my manners if necessary.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  She was not sure if his laugh or hers sounded more hypocritical.

  Gypsy clapped her hands as the fiddler started a square dance. The sparse space between the bunks was filled with jacks. Others crowded onto the bunks. Near the stove at the far end, a piece of twine was draped with drying socks.

  The man with the fiddle-box had earned his name Stretch. His head brushed the rafters when he stood to call, “Bucks, find yourself a gal and swing her out into a square.”

  When Adam held out his hand, Gypsy smiled. She was the only woman in the bunkhouse, but the men wearing a handkerchief on their right arms were the “gals.”

  Old Vic picked up his mouth organ in his gnarled fingers. With no hair on his head and his body bent from too many winters, he refused to retire. He would not leave the north woods until Reverend Frisch came to speak a few words over his body in a box made from the pines around them.

  Gypsy laughed as the music began, and she sashayed from one man to the next around the square. When she came back to Adam, he whirled her about and put his arm around her waist as he promenaded her to the beat of clapping hands, which nearly obliterated the cheerful melody. She took Edvard’s broad hands and sp
un with him in the center of the lopsided square, then stepped back as Adam linked arms with Edvard’s bulky partner, who wore a garish green handkerchief around his arm. She laughed as the men’s boots struck the floor like thunder.

  Her breath exploded out as Adam twirled her into his arms. When he paused, the other dancers in the square bumped into them, but he ignored the grumbles. Concern darkened his eyes to nearly purple as he asked, “Gypsy, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She slipped her arm through his and urged him to follow Edvard and his partner. “Don’t worry so much.”

  As they watched the others spin in the center of the square, he smiled. “I like to worry about you, Gypsy,” he whispered against her hair.

  She had no time to reply as Stretch urged everyone to promenade with the person to their left. Swinging along with Peabody’s enthusiastic dancing, she found her gaze returning to Adam. The warmth of his smile surrounded her as he took her hands and turned her into his arms as the dance brought them back together.

  The room exploded into applause when the dance ended. Before she could speak, Stretch began the next tune. Adam grinned as he bowed to her.

  More than an hour later, the musicians took a breather. Gypsy leaned her head against Adam’s shoulder while she wiped sweat from her forehead. In the packed bunk-house, it was warm for the first time all winter. Someone pressed a cup into her hand, and she sipped gratefully. She was not surprised it was whiskey.

  Peabody’s men bragged about the scale of lumber that would come from the hillside they had cleared. The other crews announced their own figures. Under the laughter came a steady ping as the men chewing tobacco spit into metal spittoons.

  When Stretch plied the bow across his fiddle, Adam asked, “Do you want to dance again?”

  “I’ve had enough dancing for a while.”

  “Me, too.” His hand curved around her elbow as he bent to whisper in her ear. “Would you like to hear what I’d really like to do? I’d like to lay you back on one of these bunks and make love with you until you burn all around me.”

  “Adam, not here!” She glanced at the men, but they were intent on Peabody, who was clearing the middle of the bunkhouse.

  His fingers inched along her arm to brush the soft upsweep of her breast. When she gasped, he smiled. “I want you, Gypsy, so bad I’ve forgotten what it’s like to sleep all night. It’s not the lice that keep me awake. It’s the thought of holding you and being part of you.”

  “Don’t!”

  “Why not?” He framed her face with his wide hands. “I want you, Gypsy. Do you want me?”

  She quivered as she pulled away. Lying was impossible, for he knew how she responded when he tempted her into madness with his touch.

  When she gathered up her coat, Stretch’s fiddle let out a mournful groan. She paused as Peabody called, “Dancing’s over for now. How about some louse races?”

  “There’s enough of the critters in the beds,” shouted back a jack. “I don’t want to watch the bloodsucking creatures.”

  Peabody surveyed the room as he crossed his broad arms over his broader chest. “We’ve been remiss in not welcoming the new men to Glenmark Timber Company’s camp. It’s time to find out who’s the best among the greenhorns.”

  When Adam swore under his breath, Gypsy could not help laughing. Even a man as unaware of logging camp life as he was could not miss the amused anticipation in the bull of the woods’ voice.

  “Let’s let the newest greenhorns prove themselves.” He pointed to Bert. “You first, Sayre.”

  Bert shuffled forward, grinning. Whiskey splashed from his cup, and she guessed from his weaving steps he had drunk more than his share. Peabody had him standing against the wall by the door. The flunkey held the cigar he was not allowed to smoke in the cookhouse.

  “Jump forward as far as you can,” Peabody ordered.

  The flunkey grinned, waving his arms. “Back away, boys. I’ll be ’alfway across the room.”

  His long legs did not take him halfway to the door, but he put several feet of floor between him and the wall. When he was about to look back, Peabody shook his head.

  “You’re only half done, lad. Now jump back.”

  “Jump back?”

  Laughing at Bert’s astonishment, the crew chief urged, “That’s right. My boys must be able to jump in any direction, fast and far, when the cry of ‘timber’ goes up. Maybe you boys in the cook shack aren’t as nimble.”

  Yells of encouragement filled the room as Bert bent his knees. Edvard slid a pail behind him. Raucous cries hid the sound. When an arm settled around her shoulders, Gypsy glanced at Adam and quickly away. How could she resist him when he wanted what she wanted?

  Bert started to jump, but his feet caught in the bucket. He toppled to the floor. The pail crashed against the bunks to appreciative laughter.

  “Kicked the bucket!” crowed Hank. “Now you’re a jack, Bert!”

  Adam offered the Englishman a hand. With a fierce curse, Bert knocked it away. He scrambled to his feet. His glower was met with more good-natured chuckles.

  Adam shrugged and asked no one in particular, “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Some men don’t like being made a fool of,” Gypsy answered. “Others seem to have a skill for it.”

  He arched a brow. “Let’s get out of here before it’s my turn.”

  “You got your hazing when you fell off that log.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  As they walked out into the wintry night, she twined her fingers with his. He led her through the fragrant pines, and her feet slid through the snow in front of the cook shack. The glitter of the moonlight on the drifts made them a collection of gems waiting for some titan to wear.

  “How beautiful it is tonight!” she breathed. “Wild and free.”

  “That’s why I wanted to bring you to the hurrah, Gypsy. So you could enhance this loveliness with your own.”

  She gazed into his eyes, which were shadowed by the dark. When his arms went around her, her fingers clasped behind his neck. “You’re a charmer, Adam Lassiter.”

  “Part of the service, my fine lady, to lure you out of the cookhouse and charm you with sweet phrases to bring you into my arms.”

  “Which is where I am.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “It seems you’ve succeeded admirably with your plan, Mr. Lassiter.”

  His arms tightened as he whispered with sudden seriousness, “Only with the first part, my dear Gypsy.”

  Her answer was swept away by his lips capturing hers. Knowing no one would intrude, she welcomed his mouth against hers. Her breath was ragged as he tasted her cheek before bending to tease the skin along her neck.

  When she shivered, he laughed and offered his arm. She put her gloved hand on it as she held her skirt out of the mud, which was frozen into oddly sculptured shapes. Snow drifted lazily toward the ground.

  When she yawned, he chuckled. “I didn’t mean to keep you out so late, Gypsy.”

  “Usually I’d be getting up in just a few hours.” She edged around a slushy puddle.

  “What made you come north?”

  At the abrupt question, she glanced at him. What little she could see of his face in the light from the kerosene lamps on the bunkhouse revealed only genuine interest. “After the war, there wasn’t much left for a decent woman in Mississippi.”

  “Mississippi?” He chuckled. “I would have guessed you were from Virginia or maybe North Carolina by the way you barely drawl your words. Not like those folks down on the gulf.”

  She hoped her face was as shadowed as his. “Maybe all this Yankee jargon has rubbed off on me. If I ever go home, they’ll be more offended than they were when I left.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “After the war there was nothing for a woman who didn’t want to cozy up with a carpetbagger. I saw an advertisement for a cook, and here I am. I’m sorry my reason isn’t more dramatic. Certainly not like yours.”
r />   Adam stopped. When she walked past him, he called, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “If you want to continue this conversation, it’ll have to be by the stove.” She turned to face him and grinned. “I’m smarter than a Yankee who doesn’t know enough to come in out of the cold.”

  “I want to continue this conversation, Gypsy. There’re some things which need to be said between us.” He held out his hand, his voice abruptly serious. “Now.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The quiet of the kitchen was shattered by the snap of embers in the stove. When Gypsy lit the lantern by the door, light spread through the molasses darkness. Adam lifted the lamp and hung it on a rafter.

  “Thank you.” She drew off her gloves and stuffed them into the pockets of her coat.

  “My pleasure.” Shrugging off his jacket, he tossed it onto a bench. “Reaching the ceiling is one of the few things I can do in this kitchen better than you.”

  “True.” She hung her coat on its peg between the door and the window. Everything was just as it should be, except his gaze stroked her with frank longing.

  As she poured two cups of coffee, he sat at the table. “I’ve told you dozens of times that I’m astounded how well you handle everything in this kitchen. Why can’t you accept a compliment?”

  She collected a slab of cake from the counter. Putting it and a cup in front of him, she said quietly, “If I accept anything from anyone, I’ll be beholden.”

  “I’ve noticed you like to be independent.”

  “You have?” She stirred sugar into her coffee before pushing the bowl toward him.

  “It would be hard to miss.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Who has the stove watch tonight?”

  She sipped the coffee. “Me.”

  “You had the stove watch just two nights ago.”

  “I know, but Oscar was supposed to be on the stove watch tonight. He should stay and have a good time.”