Anything for You (12 page)

At Adam's knock, the door opened. The swish of rose silk and lavender perfume swept over him as Miss Quinlan said, “Mr. Lassiter, do come in before we both catch our deaths of cold.”

“Thank you.” He stepped inside, wondering why he had not considered Farley might not answer the door himself.

“May I take your coat, Mr. Lassiter?”

“Thank you.” Shrugging out of it, he added, “Let me hang it up. It's cold and not too clean.”

Her laugh was as sharp as icicles breaking off the roof. “How wondrous to find a gentleman in this barbaric place! You aren't like the others who come here.”

“Others?”

“The jacks my dear Calvin has come in to help maintain the house. You didn't think I cleaned this myself, did you?” She gave him no chance to answer as she swayed to a door on the right. “Do come and sit, Mr. Lassiter.”

“I can wait for Mr. Farley here.”

“Nonsense.” She grabbed his sleeve. “He's shaving.”

“At this hour?” he asked before he thought.

Miss Quinlan gave him a knowing smile before leading him into the parlor. Again his eyes grew wide.

The black maple parlor set with its matching marble-topped tables was complemented by a piano, which sat in one corner. He could not imagine how much it had cost to tote that piano all the way from Saginaw.

As his boot sank into the thick rug, he thought about the spartan quarters where the jacks slept on pine boughs. Gypsy's room was not much fancier, but here Rose Quinlan lived as well as if she were in Chicago or … he smiled. Or Saratoga.

Sitting gracefully on the settee, which was covered with pink brocade, Miss Quinlan purred, “Please join me, Mr. Lassiter.”

He considered arguing his clothes were not meant for such delicate fabric, but he could tell by her narrowed eyes she would not accept no for an answer. Going to the sturdier-looking chair, he started to sit.

“No,” Miss Quinlan chided, “I said please join me.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Right here, Mr. Lassiter.”

Adam almost laughed at his hesitation. He had not been worried about a wrestling match on a parlor settee since before he left home for the first—and last—time. Then he had thought only of stealing a kiss instead of acting like a frightened virgin about to be set upon by a lascivious rogue.

He wiped his hands on his denims and held them up. Ashes and grease clung to his skin. “I don't think you'll want me soiling your pretty furniture, Miss Quinlan.”

She rose with that hushed whisper of silk. Laughing, she said, “You wear the badges of your work with pride.”

“I'm not sure
pride
is the proper word.”

“I see you're serving the jacks chocolate cake today.”

“How do you know that?”

“You have chocolate on your shirt.” She reached out. When he stepped back, she smiled. “I was just going to show you where.”

Adam returned her smile, but coolly. This woman was as subtle as the blades of a jack's saw. “Really?”

“Yes, it's right here on your shirt.” She slowly ran her hands over her right breast. “Right here,” she whispered.

He brushed his hand against his shirt, trying to ignore her candid invitation. No wonder Farley kept her up here away from the camp. If she toyed with every jack as she was with him, she would create all kinds of trouble.

“Thanks.”

Miss Quinlan's eyes widened at his gruff tone, but they narrowed again as she murmured, “And I can see you've been making bread.” She stepped closer and gazed up at him. “I can just imagine your strong hands kneading that bread, massaging and shaping it—the softness beneath your palms as you hold it under you.”

This woman knew every trick to entice a man into her arms. He clasped his hands behind his back and smiled. “To be honest, Miss Quinlan, the closest I've come to kneading bread is to watch Gypsy do it. Her hands—”

“Gypsy!” Her voice became sharp.

“Gypsy is here?” The question came from the hallway.

Miss Quinlan's face altered again into a simpering smile as she rushed to Farley's side. Linking her fingers with his, she murmured, “Did you send for her, Calvin dear?”

“I sent for—” He straightened his false collar. “Oh, Lassiter, you're here. Don't just stand there. Come with me.”

For once, Adam was glad to do as Farley ordered. He did not look back as he followed the camp manager to a small office behind the parlor. No need—Rose Quinlan's fury billowed around him like a cold wind.

Her animosity toward Gypsy was a surprise. Rose Quinlan was living in luxury here, doted upon by her lover, while Gypsy slaved day after day to keep the jacks fed and then retired each night to spartan quarters. As he closed the door to Farley's small office, he wondered if he finally had stumbled upon the clue he needed.

Cold burst into the kitchen, and Gypsy glanced up in surprise as the door struck the wall.

“Gypsy!” Bert's shout reverberated through the cook shack, freezing the flunkeys. The door slammed shut. He reeled to where she was spooning cookie dough onto long sheets. Panting, he leaned on the table.

“What is it?”

“Accident on the 'ill! It's—it's—”

Gypsy clutched her hand to her chest, wondering if she could force her breath to escape. It burst out in a spurt of coughs. She waved aside Bert's offer of assistance as she grabbed a cup of tea and downed a mouthful.

“I'm fine.” That was a lie, but it did not matter. “Who?”

“Green'orn. Worth.” Through his beard, he choked out, “Tree toppled on 'im. Peabody's all adither up there. 'E sent a message. 'E needs 'elp. What can we do?”

Gypsy snapped out of her horror to order, “Pack what food is ready for lunch. Bert, get the sled.” She did not wait to see if the flunkeys would obey. She knew they would.

She pulled out the large canisters for the coffee and poured what was ready into them, then filled the rest with tea.

Her crew worked in silent perfection. She wondered why she had let Farley insist that Adam work in the kitchen. Things ran more smoothly without his cast clunking about. Later she should demand Adam be given a different job.

She should, but she would not.

Adam was not the problem. Her reaction to him was. If she could treat him like the other men, the situation would right itself in no time. A stolen kiss or two or even more in the midst of a gentle snowfall should not make her falter in her job.

Pushing the troubling thought aside, she fished a key out of a buttoned pocket in her skirt and unlocked the cupboard behind her bedroom door. She lifted out three bottles and relatched the cabinet. Although she had put the bottles in there at the beginning of the logging season, she had hoped no emergency would require her to get them out. No one spoke as she came back into the kitchen. She poured the whiskey into the canisters holding coffee and twisted on the lids.

She frowned when she saw the small amount of food on the table. They had finished washing the breakfast dishes less than an hour before. No one had guessed they would need food so quickly and under such horrible circumstances.

Pulling her coat over her shoulders, she rammed her hands into the sleeves even as she was lifting a canister. Per did not bother to put on his jacket as he picked up the box of sandwiches. As he followed her, he was silent.

Like a parade of ants, they carried the food to the sled. The men listened to her instructions and obeyed without comment. Wishing she could let someone else think in the midst of the numbing pain, she tried to concentrate on what must be done to help Peabody and his crew.

A shadow draped over Gypsy as she adjusted the boxes so they would not tip off. She did not need to turn around. With a sense she could not name, she knew Adam stood behind her. She longed to throw herself in his arms and forget all this in his kisses.

She could not. She could not give in to her grief now, not when Peabody and his men were depending on her.

“Gypsy …”

The tenderness Adam put into her name nearly undid her. Blinking back tears, she used irritation to conceal her despair. “Either step aside or help me.”

“What's happened?” When she explained, he said, “Coffee won't do much good.”

She walked back toward the kitchen. “It'll help when it's laced with whiskey.”

“Gypsy, you know Farley's rule about alcohol in camp.”

“Don't quote regulations to me.” She lifted two more of the canisters from the table. Stamping past him, she shouted, “I reckon a little whiskey for medicinal purposes won't break any rule.”

Adam cursed as he tried to keep pace with her, hating the cast that slowed him down. “Have you sent for Farley?”

“Why? What could he do?” She faltered and readjusted the heavy canisters in her hands. “Bert will let him know.”

“He should be here.”

She stopped in front of him. “Look,” she said, her lips taut, “if you want an excuse to pay another call on him and Rose, go. Just get out of my way. The jacks need me.”

He stepped aside. She was right. Farley would be useless here. His ears still rang with Farley's harangue, fueled by the camp manager's frustration that Adam would not explain why Glenmark had written that letter. Adam had warned Glenmark it would create all kinds of questions, but Glenmark had insisted, not wanting anything to prevent Adam from doing his job.

And Rose Quinlan? He swallowed his laugh. She seemed interested only in causing trouble.

When Gypsy coughed as she put the last of the containers on the sled, he frowned. She might have caught cold during their visit to Nissa's saloon. Vowing to keep an eye on her, for she would push herself too hard, he shoved the boxes more securely into place.

“Thanks, Chauncey,” she said as a litter was placed on the boxes in the back of the sled.

The gawky inkslinger tipped his cap. “Sure you don't want me to come with you?”

“No. I'm taking Adam with me.”

“Adam? Who—Lassiter, right?”

“My reputation precedes me,” Adam answered with a smile.

“Naw, just curiosity about how a man could wreck his ankle so bad on the first day of work. These jacks don't like anyone who stinks of bad fortune.” Chauncey's aged lips twisted in his full beard. “Your accident. Now this one. Bad, bad sign.”

When Adam looked at Gypsy, she said, “Adam, this is the camp's inkslinger, Chauncey Lewis. He runs the wanigan.”

“Wanigan?” Adam asked cautiously.

“Over there.”

He glanced at the simple log building that served as a combination company store, supply hut, and occasionally as a church when Reverend Frisch arrived before the dining room was clean. He forced a smile as he climbed into the sled, where Gypsy competently held the reins. He needed to be careful. He could not afford to make many mistakes if he hoped to stay at Glenmark Timber Company's camp.

“How long did you work at Tellison Timber?” Gypsy asked, and he knew her keen ears had caught his mistake.

“Not long.”

“Obviously, but you've been here long enough to know what the wanigan is.”

“I know what. I just didn't know where.” He laughed at her astonishment. “I guess I've been spending too much time worrying about this ankle to learn what I should have.”

“Most jacks look for it first, so they can buy tobacco for their pipes or to chew.”

He scratched at his leg. Curse this itch! “I guess that's the cost of never having taken up that habit.”

“I guess it is.” Gypsy steered the sled toward where the jacks were cutting a hillside of white pine. The vast amount of lumber from that stand would add to the bonus paid at the end of the season.

She watched the road, which could be slick where the loggers were sliding logs down to stack by the river—not that she expected anyone to be working. With a silent sigh, she wondered what else could bring bad luck to Glenmark Timber Company and its owner.

“How come you didn't tend to me when I was hurt?” Adam asked.

“Peabody can handle something simple like binding up a broken limb.” She shivered, but kept the sled moving along the rutted road. “I hope the whiskey helps them before they get themselves into a dither over this.”

He nodded. “Your buddy Chauncey was right. This accident is going to put a scare into these superstitious jacks.”

“That's why I wanted you to come along. They'll be saying things happen in threes. First you, now today. They'll be looking over their shoulders for an accident until they cause one.”

“Tell them to count our sled tipping over on the road as an accident. One, two, three. All done.”

She answered carefully, “They don't consider that much of an accident.”

“They were worried about you.”

“They're my friends.”

“And me?”

Glad the rough road required all her attention, she admonished, “This isn't the time for such a discussion.”

Leaning his elbows on his knees, he asked, “When is? You've been avoiding me. We need to talk.”

“Not now.”

Adam nodded as he heard her desperation. More fragile than the piecrust she made day after day, she would crumble if he pushed too hard. He sat back and watched as she competently steered the sled. Short of chopping down trees, he wondered if there were anything she could not do in the logging camp.

He had no time to ask more questions, because they drove into a clearing marked by fresh stumps and logs that were longer than the cook shack. Men clustered in silence. As Gypsy drew the sled to a stop, no shouts welcomed them.

Adam jumped down off the seat and held up his hands to Gypsy. She nodded her thanks as he assisted her to the ground. Motioning for him to follow, she opened a box of cups and began to pour out the whiskey and coffee mixture. The men crowded around, eager to soothe their icy fear.

Peabody's normally ruddy face was gray. Waiting until his crew had been served, he took the cup Gypsy handed him and drained it in one gulp. She refilled it without comment.