Anything for You

Anything for You

A Novel

Jo Ann Ferguson

For Debbie Brigham
—

you have inspired me in so many ways.

This one is especially for you.

CHAPTER ONE

“What in the blazes am I supposed to do with a lame man?”

“Ain't got no idea, Gypsy.” The burly lumberjack, dressed in a dirty flannel shirt and denims, rubbed the back of his hand under his reddened nose. “Instructions came from Farley. Didn't tell me nothing 'cept this guy's supposed to work for you.”

Gypsy Elliott muttered a phrase that once would have made her blush. She glanced around her cramped kitchen. That her crew scurried back to work as soon as her gaze settled on them did not surprise her. The flunkeys working in her kitchen understood there was only one boss, and her name was Gypsy Elliott. She wiped her hands on her stained apron.

“Look, Benson,” she said quietly, “I don't have time to mollycoddle a banged-up lumberjack.”

“But Farley said—”

“Farley says too much about nothing!” She untied her apron and whipped it over her head and threw it on the table by the huge cast-iron stove, then tucked her white blouse back into her dark skirt.

“You've got that right,” said a young man sitting on a tall stool while he peeled onions. The gangly lad, barely old enough to scrape a straight-edged razor along his chin, grinned. She hated giving Oscar the job of chopping ten pounds of onions by himself, but the rest of her crew was busy fixing the supper the jacks would expect as soon as they were done with their day's work in the woods.

Benson backed away as she reached for her coat, which hung from a peg by the door. He said uneasily, “Farley was sure 'bout this. Wants this man working in the kitchen.”

“I'll deal with Farley.” Putting her hand on his sleeve, which was stained with smoke from the forge in the blacksmith's shop where he worked, she added, “Thanks for bringing the message, Benson, but if Farley thought he was going to avoid dealing with me on this, he was wrong.”

Gypsy pulled on her black wool coat, but paused when her name was called. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a tall man hurrying toward her. His brown hair was in dire need of a cut, and, like most of the men in the camp, his face was hidden behind a dark, bushy beard. Grease and flour spotted his plaid shirt.

“What is it, Bert?” she asked impatiently. “I've got to convince Farley to see sense on this.”

As always, Bert's broad Cockney accent colored every word he spoke. “Why don't you just knock some sense into 'is 'ead?”

She laughed. Buttoning her coat, she said, “It might be the only way to get him to listen.” She opened the door to the dining room. “Keep an eye on that venison. After they dragged it out of the woods, Peabody's men won't want it burned.”

“I'll 'ave it cooked just right.”

“Good! I'll be back as soon as I can.”

Benson stepped aside as she bustled into the dining room at the front of the cookhouse. She paused and ran her fingers along one of the primitive tables where the jacks would be eating in two hours. Calling back an order to wash the soiled oilcloth, she threw open the door.

Gypsy no longer recoiled each time the frigid air struck her. She had become accustomed to having her breath stripped away by the cold. Cautiously, she stepped down, because the cookhouse was built high off the ground. Boards topping the logs around the foundation prevented cold from seeping under the cookhouse during the long Michigan winter.

Wind burned her face, peppering her with specks of snow. Past a clump of pine trees, the river slumbered beneath a thick, silvery blanket of ice. Winter held the north woods in its thrall.

Gypsy's dark skirts twisted around her legs, threatening to trip her into the nearest snowbank, but she did not slow as she walked toward the camp manager's office. She was no greenhorn, unacquainted with a rough north woods winter. Her third winter at Glenmark Timber Company, north of Saginaw, was almost over. Hunching into her turned-up collar, she wished she had not been in such a hurry to deal with Farley's unreasonable demand. She had left her scarf in the kitchen.

Her black, high-topped shoes sank into the snow because her strides were not as long as those of the men who had cut a trail through the drifts. She winced as chilly flakes drifted down past her ankles, but waved to the men by the blacksmith's shop.

The two log bunkhouses were deserted. With snow piled halfway up their walls, the long buildings awaited the return of the weary men who would eat a huge meal and fall into their bunks to sleep until called back to work before dawn. Six days a week, the routine was the same. Only on Sundays did the men have some time to themselves. No one complained. The wages would feed the jacks' families for a year.

The camp manager's office was set on the opposite side of the camp. Beyond it, in the shadows of the trees, Farley's house glowed with warmth. Gypsy's room at the back of the kitchen was much more modest. She ignored the tantalizing idea of living in a house with rugs on the floor and curtains at the windows. Instead, she stamped her feet on the rickety porch of the office and entered without knocking.

The man sitting at a desk in the middle of the cramped room looked more suited to an office in Lansing or Detroit than to a rough logging camp. His slicked-back hair was gray at the temples. Near his eyes, lines from past laughter were etched into his skin. A gigantic brown mustache was his only concession to the hairy faces favored by the jacks. He rose, smiling, and smoothed the wrinkles from the black coat he wore over a simple vest and trousers.

Motioning for her to sit on the bench in front of his desk, Calvin Farley said in his precise voice, “What a pleasant surprise, Gypsy.”

“Surprise?” Her eyebrows arched in cool amusement. She shook off beads of water as heat from the potbellied stove melted the snow clinging to her wool coat. “You sent Benson with the order that I'm supposed to find work for some jack who's broken his ankle. I came to check whether you'd gone completely out of your mind.”

He leaned on his paper-strewn desk. “You complained last week you were shorthanded after we hired new men to cut that stand out west of the main group. This jack just hired on. I figured you might as well have him, instead of shipping him back to Saginaw.”

“Farley, be reasonable. If you want someone to mother him, let Rose look after him.”

Walking around his desk, he shook his head. “Gypsy,
you
be reasonable. You know Rose has enough to do.”

“And I don't?” She laughed as coldly as the wind clawing at the logs. “While your mistress works at prettying herself up for an evening with you, I have to make meals for a hundred jacks.”

“I wouldn't ask if I thought you couldn't handle this.”

Her lips twitched as he smiled with an innocence he had left behind in Maine when he followed the loggers west. Shaking her finger, she laughed. “If you weren't too old for me, Calvin Farley, I swear I'd let you woo me into taking Rose's place. You know your way around a woman.”

“If I knew my way around you,” he said, chuckling, “I'd find things a lot easier here. And, Gypsy, I'm not too old for you.”

“Maybe I'm too old for you. After all, Rose must be right out of the schoolroom.”

His lips tightened, but she did not apologize. She did not have to worry about Farley's firing her. A skillful cook enticed men to sign on for long hours and long months of work. A bad cook meant losing good workers. She was reputed to be the best head cook in the north woods. It was a standing she worked hard to keep.

As if there had been no flaring of anger in Farley's dark eyes, she added, “Whether or not Rose is busy is irrelevant.
I'm
too busy to come up with things for a lame man to do.”

“He can't work in the blacksmith's shop or out on the hill.”

“Farley, be fair! Bert Sayre has finally learned what he needs to do, so I don't have to watch him every minute, as I have for the past couple of months. I've got too much to do with all these new jacks. Normally I'd be glad to do you a favor, but I don't have the time now.”

He folded his arms over his perfectly pressed vest. “Gypsy, don't force me to make this an order.”

“What is so important about this man?”

A knock brought a deep sigh of relief from Farley. “Come in!”

She heard the irregular clunk of a crutch and a heavy boot. She had thought Farley understood how busy the cookhouse was. Clenching her hands at her sides, she took a deep breath. She had not wanted to have this argument in front of the injured logger, but she was not going to let Farley run roughshod over her.

“Come in, Lassiter, and close the door,” Farley called, as if greeting his best friend.

“Farley—”

“Gypsy, give the man a chance to get in first. It's nasty out there.”

She was about to remind him she had fought the wind just minutes ago. Her retort vanished as she stared at a tall, dark-haired man who bent his head to come through the low door. A roughly trimmed mustache hid his upper lip and drooped over his patchy beard. Although she wondered why he had started growing his beard so late into the logging season, she said nothing. The jacks were eccentric, and she had learned to accept their idiosyncrasies as they tolerated hers.

She saw amazement in his blue eyes and pulled her gaze away from his. Except for the crutch, he was dressed identically to every jack in the camp. His denim trousers were held up by suspenders cutting across a brightly printed mackinaw shirt. On his right foot, he wore a boot laced to his knee. The other foot was balanced off the floor. A thick plaster of paris cast was visible above a loosely tied moccasin.

Yet he was not like the other jacks. She sensed that instantly, although she was not sure why. His shoulders were as broad as any of the other men's. The sculptured planes of his face were tanned from hours of sun splashing off the snow. Even the astonishment in his eyes as he looked her up and down like a crew chief appraising a stand of trees was not new. None of the jacks expected to see a woman working in the camp.

His hands—she tried to keep from staring at his hands, but she could not help herself. His fingers were long and tapering and totally unlike the blunt, weathered hands of a jack. She could not imagine them holding an ax. Instead, they should be caressing the strings of a violin or the body of a woman.

Gypsy shook the thought from her head. If Farley discovered she was having moony thoughts about some lame jack, he would roar with laughter and repeat the tale to everyone within hearing. She would never hear the end of it. She frowned at both men.

Farley said, with almost childlike eagerness, “Gypsy Elliott, this is Adam Lassiter. He'll be working for you until he's healed.”

Lassiter held out his hand to her. She gasped when he clasped her fingers in a warm grip and lifted her hand to his lips. The brush of his mustache tickled her skin, sending a ripple of indescribable heat along her arm. She jerked her hand back, then tensed at his low chuckle.

Blast Lassiter! If he thought he was going to unsettle her with his highfalutin ways, she would show him right away who was in charge of the cookhouse.

“What talents do you have beside wrecking your ankle?” Gypsy asked.

Farley laughed. “I warned you, Lassiter.”

“So you did. You told me the kingbee cook here was irascible, but you didn't tell me Gypsy Elliott is a woman.” Limping past her, he leaned on the back of the bench. He faced her, and his smile broadened. “To answer your question, Miss Elliott, I've had some experience in the kitchen.”

“Cooking?”

“What else?”

“How long have you been in the north woods?” she asked, crossing her arms in front of her. “Any lumberjack worth his pay can tell you tales about the so-called saloon down the road where the back rooms double as kitchen and cribs for the jacks' entertainment.”

“Haven't heard about the place yet,” he answered, but his gaze avoided hers. He was hiding something. That did not surprise her. Most people in the north woods were. “Just got here. I've been working for Tellison Timber south of here.”

“You sure picked the worst time to cuddle up to a log.” Shaking her head, she looked back at the camp manager and smiled as she met Farley's broad grin. “This is going to cost you.”

He sat on the edge of his desk and clasped his hands around the knee of his immaculate trousers. “I'd rather you considered it a favor.”

“Favors get repaid.”

“I'm sure you'll remind me.”

Glancing at the man who was fitting his crutch under his arm again, she sighed. “You're right about that! If I'd wanted to play nursemaid, I could have stayed home in Mississippi.”

“Just give me a list the next time I go to Saginaw.”