Anything for You (8 page)

With a laugh, she obeyed. She tensed, but he managed with no trouble. Letting him draw her hand within his arm, she matched his uneven steps. She yearned to put aside her worries and delight in the sunshine, which glittered like glorious diamonds in the snow.

Shouts sounded from across the camp. When Gypsy waved to the jacks, she heard Adam laugh. “What's funny?” she asked.

“You are well loved here.”

“My cooking is.”

“No, it's more than the cooking. They like
you.
”

“I like them.”

“All of them?”

She smiled as her black boots swept aside the newly fallen snow. They were walking toward the river that slept beneath the ice. “Of course I don't like all of them. I wish Peabody would order some of them to walk. I avoid anyone I don't like.”

“Nice and simple?”

Gypsy's smile faltered as they emerged from beneath the trees to stand on the low riverbank. She listened to the thin song of the winter birds, then bent to look at tiny footprints interspersed by a tail print. A muskrat. Standing, she said, “I try to keep peace in my home.”

“You consider this home?”

“Why do you question everything I say?”

“How else can I learn anything?” He grinned and held up his hands when she frowned. “Sorry. I'm just trying to be friendly, Gypsy.”

“I've noticed. But I thought we weren't going to talk about that.”

He caught her elbow in his hand and the humor vanished from his eyes. “It's not as if we did anything criminal.”

“Let's not start arguing again.” Slowly she pulled away. “I'd like to spend an hour
not
arguing with you.”

“Impossible.”

“If you think that, why—” She paused as she saw his smile. She never could guess when he was teasing her. “If you want to avoid quarreling, you should find something to talk about that won't cause an argument.”

He drew even with her as she slowly strolled along the river. “All right. What can we talk about? How about home?”

“What about home?”

“Your home, my home, whatever.”

“I told you. My home is right here.”

“And mine is here, too.”

“Really? You live around here?”

He grinned. “Not exactly right here. I grew up near Ann Arbor. I've been to places where the buildings are fancier or the mountains are higher, but Michigan is home.”

“I know. It's home for me, too.”

He paused, curiosity on his face. “That amazes me.”

“Why?”

“Every time you open your mouth, you remind everyone you're from the South. Why do you stay here?”

She stuffed her hands into her pockets, smiling. “This is home for me now. I like it better than the hot, sticky summers in Mississippi.”

“Where do you spend your summers now?”

Flinging out a hand in a pose she had seen in
Harper's Bazar,
she said, “Why, Mr. Lassiter, I summer in Saratoga.”

“And rub elbows with the rich?”

“Why not?”

“If you don't want to tell me the truth, I guess it's none of my business.”

“I didn't mean it that way.” Uneasily she looked at the frozen river. A tight band encased her chest, centering around her heart. Other people had asked the same questions, and she had managed to laugh the answers aside. She should have guessed Adam would not be distracted as easily.

“How did you mean it?”

“As a joke.”

He took her hand and brought her to face him. A wry grin was visible beneath his frosted mustache. “That I knew. I just wondered why you never answer a question about anything beyond the cookhouse.”

“Maybe because there's nothing exciting about my life beyond the cookhouse.”

“No flirtations? No lovers?”

She laughed. “Can you imagine an adoring swain who would allow his lady fair to disappear into the north woods for months with a hundred brawny lumberjacks?”

“How about your folks? What do they think of your job?”

Gypsy fought to keep her face from revealing her grief. She knew she had failed when he drew her down to sit on a fallen tree.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly as he slanted his crutch across another tree. “That was the wrong question, wasn't it?”

“No, it's all right,” she whispered. “My parents died a few years ago. It still hurts to think about that.”

“A few years ago? About the time you came here?”

“I had no reason not to come here when Mr. Glenmark offered me a job.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

“One sister.” She stared down at her skirt and brushed flakes of snow from it. “She's happily married, and I didn't want to be the spinster who's just in everyone's way.” This was not going at all as she had hoped. Instead of satisfying her curiosity about him, she was answering his questions. Raising her chin, she said, “I have a respectable position. Undoubtedly it would be different if I worked at the Porcelain Feather Saloon.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Before he could continue, Gypsy asked, “And where do you go when you're away from Michigan?”

“Besides Saratoga?” He sent a stone skidding across the ice. When it slid to a stop near the middle of the frozen river, he said, “Different places. Wherever my work takes me. I like to see different parts of the country.”

“What place did you like best?” She had to keep the conversation going. Maybe he would divulge more about himself.

He leaned his arm behind her. Even though the waning sunlight added to the chill, the mere brush of his sleeve against the back of her coat sent fiery delight along her. She did not move as he raised his other hand and swept it across the sky as if building a scene from his imagination.

“San Francisco,” he answered. “I loved the hills and the sea and the bay and all the excitement of a city coming to life.” His fingertip brushed her cheek, bringing her face toward his. “You'd love it there, too, Gypsy. Instead of staying up day and night to cook for these jacks, you could be dancing and gambling and playing host to the city's rich.”

“Not my idea of fun.” She wanted to lower her eyes, but she could not keep from staring at his lips as he spoke.

“But it's a lot like Saratoga.” His hand glided up her back, and his mustache brushed her mouth when he leaned toward her to whisper, “We could have fun there together.”

With a soft groan, she turned away before he could tempt her with another soul-sapping kiss. She was finding out nothing but how much she wanted to be in his arms. She clasped her hands in her lap and fought to keep her voice even as she asked, “Which place did you like least?”

His smile faded. “South to fight in the war.”

She bit back her gasp as pain tightened his face. Pressing her hand over her stomach, which twisted like a branch in a high wind, she realized if she had met Adam Lassiter then, he would have been one of the enemy. She easily could imagine him in a kepi cap only a few shades darker than his deep blue eyes. Whether he had worn the shoulder straps of an officer or the stripes of an enlisted man, he had been a Yankee.

“I don't want to talk about it,” he continued.

She nodded, for once eager to agree with him. She did not want to talk about that horrible time when hunger and death had stalked the street in front of her house.

She whispered, “Now it's my turn to apologize.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” He pushed himself to his feet. Draping one arm over the crutch, he jammed his hands into his pockets. “You weren't shooting at us.” A sudden smile tore the anguish from his face. “After working for you this week, I know you'd never let a man die so quickly and easily.”

She shivered and lowered her eyes. At his laugh, she looked up to discover his grin.

He tapped her nose as he asked, “Cold?”

“Not very.”

“You're shivering. Someone step on your grave?”

With a gasp of horror, she stood. He caught her arm, holding her easily even though he was balanced on his crutch.

“Let me go!” she cried.

“Whoa! What's wrong with you?”

“How could you say something like that?”

“Something like what?” His raven brows dipped toward each other. “What's wrong with you? All I said was—”

“Don't say it again!”

He swayed as she tried to pull away, but refused to release her. “It's just a saying my grandmother used to use. I didn't mean to upset you.”

“I know. It's just all this talk of the war and dying and … I'm sorry, Adam.”

“Me, too.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “At least we aren't arguing.”

“I think I'd rather argue with you.”

“Are those our only choices?” His fingers stroked hers as his sapphire eyes glowed.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

Chuckling, he said, “You may be satisfied with just those two choices, but I'm not.”

She could have walked away before his lips brushed her cheek. As slow as he was with the crutch, he would be unable to catch her. But she did not pull away. She wanted a moment more of his bewitching gaze holding her in an invisible embrace.

When a smile tilted one corner of his ragged mustache, her pulse throbbed through her at the speed of her rapid breath. She gasped when his hand settled on her waist. The slightest pressure from his fingers leaned her toward him.

As she touched the firm breadth of his shoulder, she was sure lightning had riveted her. Fire raced along her skin, setting every inch of her ablaze. He tugged her more tightly to him. His mustache was cold against her face, but his lips scorched her mouth. Like his words, his kiss teased her. As his tongue savored the shadowed secrets of her mouth, her arms slipped around his neck. She let the strength of his arm cradle her.

A soft moan escaped her lips as his mouth pressed against the pulse on her neck. When he spoke, the caress of his words sent a tremor to her very toes.

“Can you be satisfied with less than this, honey?”

Her fingers curled on his strong back as she whispered, “This is crazy.”

“Yes, it is.” He etched her skin with the sparks of his kisses, following the ribbons of her bonnet to the very center of her throat. Decorating her chin with the same luscious flame, he murmured against her lips, “It's crazy to think
I
could be satisfied with just this.”

He silenced her question with his mouth over hers. Demanding, his lips pressed into hers as he leaned her back against his arm, his fingers tangling in her hair and loosening it. The strands drifted across his hand.

With a frayed gasp, she pulled away. She jabbed her hair back under her bonnet and stared up at him in dismay. “We can't—I mean, we shouldn't—”

He smiled as he brushed her cheek with a crooked finger. “Probably not.”

“I don't know you very well.”

“You could know me very, very well.”

She shook her head, trying to free herself from the web of his silken voice and his touch as dangerous as a spider's venom. “I told you, I don't—”

“Sleep with any of the jacks.” Adam chuckled when that appealing blush slapped her cheeks again. She could speak so plainly about anything but her own passions. “I heard you the first time you said that.”

“I never said
that.
”

“No, you were much more ladylike.”

“One of us has to have good manners.” She gathered her coat more closely to her as she stepped back.

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.