Anything for You (28 page)

“Don't, Adam,” she breathed.

“Don't? Why not? Why shouldn't we want to recall every glory of the few nights we can have together?”

She was about to reply when her arm brushed the newspaper. As she caught it before the pages could scatter to the floor, renewed horror swept through her.

Her reaction must have flashed in her eyes, for his voice became studiously emotionless. “What's wrong?”

“This.”

He picked up the sheet. With a low whistle, he shook his head in disbelief. “So our Rose wasn't honest with Farley. Instead of Miss Quinlan, it should have been Mrs. Quinlan. I wonder if Farley knew, or if she simply convinced him to bring her here so she could take him for every penny he had.”

“Do you think her husband came out here to kill her because she left him and their children?” She smoothed out the page and stared at the unbelievable words. “Four children! Who would have guessed she was more than seventeen or eighteen years old? According to this, she's older than I am.”

He tipped up her chin with his finger. “You could look as young if you used the rice powder and belladonna she did. Actually, you're prettier without the cosmetics.”

“Wonderful! Not only do I usually look like an old hag, but now I'm prettier than a dead woman.” She pushed him aside. Folding the newspaper, she pointed at the larder. “Get some apples out and put them to soak. It's time to begin the pies.”

“Gypsy?”

Reluctantly she turned to look at him. As she had so often, she wished he was not so tall. Tilting her head back at such an odd angle left her at a disadvantage. “Adam, I don't have time for idle chatter.”

“This isn't idle by any stretch of the imagination.” He crossed the room. When he did not touch her, she hid her shock. “The idea of her husband chasing her all the way from Saginaw is ludicrous.”

“Murder is ludicrous.”

“Murder is rational to those with a predilection to it. Sane people, like you and me, can't comprehend anyone tormenting and slaying someone, but—” He interrupted himself as she turned away. “Gypsy, I didn't mean to frighten you.”

“Yes, you did.”

“All right, I did.” Adam resisted the temptation to draw her into his arms. When he had started working for her, he was misled by her calm control of her cookhouse. He had learned Gypsy cloaked her vulnerability with sarcasm.

“There's no need,” she whispered. “I'm frightened enough already. I thought the greatest danger here was the stove blowing up or an accident on the hill.”

“We've had an accident on the hill.”

“Do you want to spook the whole camp worse than it already is? Every man is looking over his shoulder. They watch me as if they expect someone to swoop down and murder me right before their eyes. Do you know what it's like to have silence follow you everywhere?”

He hooked his thumbs around his suspenders. “No one with any sense expects you'll be murdered.”

“Jacks have no sense!” Flinging out her hands, she said, “The floorboards must be set just so. Not a splinter of poplar can be used in camp. For the love of heaven, if I were foolish enough to pick up poplar branches for the firebox, I'd be locked out of my own cookhouse and sent on the hay trail.”

“Spare me your charming colloquialisms, Gypsy. You can't hide from what you can't see.”

“This murderer
is
invisible.”

He snarled a curse, but his arms enfolded her to him as he sought in her mouth for pleasure. His embrace gentled as he delighted in her softness against him. The familiar longing could not be satisfied for another two nights.

At the thought, he throbbed with the desire festering in him. He yearned to pull aside her lacy blouse and the silk beneath it. Then he would kiss her until her breath burned against him.

Groaning, he released her. Seeing surprise in her volatile eyes, he smiled sadly. “Honey, it's not easy to hold you like this when I long to hold you in your bed.” His grin became rakish. “Of course, I could invite you to join me in mine, but I don't think you're interested in sharing my bunk with me and fifty jacks.”

“Adam, I wish you could stay here, but …”

“But?”

Gypsy's happiness disappeared in a thunderclap of pain. She cared too much for him. She loved him too much to endanger him. Staring at the wall, she could deny that no longer. She loved Adam Lassiter. The joy washing over her when he looked in her direction, when he touched her, when he made love with her had to be love.

“There's no but,” she answered quietly. “I'm not thinking clearly.”

“I would say you're not. You have to leave camp.”

“Leave? Are you mad?”

“Allowing you to stay would be mad. You can't risk your life for the last few weeks of the season.”

“You're panicking like a superstitious jack.”

“Superstitions don't worry me. Facts do.”

“Facts?” She laughed as she went into the larder. Carrying a bag of flour to the table, she dropped it, raising a cloud of white dust. “Just because every logger here thinks I'll be the next victim doesn't make it so. Perhaps Bobby Worth's death wasn't an accident. Then it could be any of us who might be killed next. Nobody else is leaving. The jacks are willing to work until payday comes.”

“If it's money, Glenmark will take care of you. He doesn't want his kingbee cook murdered. Even Farley should be able to see it'd be better to pension you off so you can come back next year when things are settled.”

She ladled flour into her mixing bucket. “It's not a matter of money. I appreciate your concern, but I won't leave.”

He grasped her elbows and drew her toward him again. “Won't? Or do you mean you can't leave?” When she flinched, he demanded, “What is it, Gypsy? What's frightening you so much that you're hiding here? Is it those notes?”

In a strangled voice, she gasped, “Notes? How do you know about—I mean—”

“I want to know what's scared you so.”

Only inwardly did Gypsy cringe away. She kept her face serene. It would be deliciously sweet to share the burden with someone who wished to help her, but that was impossible.

The latch on the dining room door rattled, and Adam swore as Oscar and Hank entered, blowing on their hands and knocking mud and snow from their feet.

Hank announced, “Farley's posted a reward for any information about Rose's murderer.”

“How much?” Adam's tone suggested he was neither pleased nor surprised.

“A thousand dollars.” The fat man's eyes twinkled with greed. “That would buy any information I had—if I had any.”

Oscar clapped him on the shoulder. “Can't you come up with something? You must have talked to Rose a time or two.”

He peeled his coat off and hung it by Gypsy's. “Too good for the rest of us, she was. I wouldn't be surprised if someone took offense to her uppity ways and decided to take her down a notch or two.”

“Hank!” gasped Gypsy.

A sheepish expression stole the humor from his wide jowls. Glancing at Oscar, who was pretending to be busy, he mumbled, “Sorry, Gypsy. It's just that none of us liked how she treated you.”

“She treated me fine.”

“When she wanted something from you,” interjected Oscar with uncharacteristic fury. “She knew what she was, and she knew what you are.”

As she cut lard into the flour, Gypsy said, “I don't care what she thought. I will hear no laughing at the dead.”

As the men went into the larder, Adam said, “Gypsy, you're going to have to let them deal with the horror.”

“By making fun of a dead woman?” She glanced at the newspaper. Wiping her hands on her apron, she wadded the pages into a thick ball then opened the firebox and threw the paper on the fire. “Rest in peace, Rose Quinlan,” she whispered.

When Adam put his arms around her, she could not halt her tears. She clung to him, afraid as she never had been before. Not for herself, but for him.

She vowed not to let the threat sweep her away from the man she loved. He would survive, no matter what she must do to protect him.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Hank, you've got to be mistaken.” Gypsy wiped her hands to loosen the flour clinging to her fingers. Sunday afternoons were a good time for making cookies.

“No, Gypsy.” His broad belly rocked with vehemence. “Farley wants to see you lickety-split up at his house.”

Sighing, she pulled off her apron and reached for her coat. “Why can't this wait until tomorrow? Today's supposed to be our day off!”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“I can walk across camp by myself.” She smiled to lessen her brusqueness. “Or do you want to get out of baking the rest of the cookies, Hank?”

He grinned, his wide cheeks stretching as easily as pine pitch. “Give a man credit for trying.”

“Per and Bert should be along shortly. Oscar is taking out the last of the trash.”

“How about Adam?”

She frowned. “He went over to the wanigan. Maybe he got caught up in a game of cards with Chauncey. I'll stop by on my way back and send him over if he's still slacking.”

“Gypsy?”

She shoved her arms into her coat. Shrugging it into place, she reached for her bonnet. “What?”

Hank met her gaze steadily. “Don't think me out of line, but Adam's good for you. You've been happier since he's arrived. You've been singing around the cook shack.”

“You're not out of line,” she said in a low voice. “I'd better go see what's irritating Farley.”

“Maybe you should think about leaving with Adam when the spring drive comes,” continued the fat man.

“I'm needed on the drive.”

“I meant after.”

She smiled as she settled her bonnet on her hair and tied the ribbons under her chin. “I haven't thought about what I'll be doing after the drive. All I know is that it'll be somewhere there's no snow.”

Hurrying out the door, she rushed toward the house hidden in the trees beyond the camp. To stay would force her to admit Adam had said nothing of a future together.

Not that they could have one, she reminded herself. She knew so little about Adam Lassiter.

And he knows nothing about you.

With a sigh, she wondered how she could love Adam but find it impossible to trust him with the deepest terrors of her soul. She wanted to share the truth. She must not. That could suck him into the horror.

Coincidence,
she could hear her sister saying. Was it? Had she banished herself here for no reason? No, it could not be just a string of misfortunes that had stalked her family. The notes proved that, but they had stopped. She wished she knew what that meant.

Stuffing her hands into her pockets, Gypsy hurried through the snow. The cold wind chewed on her bones as the weak winter sun dropped toward the tops of the trees. When she reached the house, the first thing she would do was remind Farley exactly how precious her free time was.

Her irritation withered when she recalled how distraught and disorganized the camp manager had been since Rose's murder. Farley had not spoken to her more than once during the past two weeks. She guessed he was embarrassed. Maybe he wanted to apologize privately.

Footsteps intruded on her thoughts. Before she could call a greeting, she heard a low, guttural laugh. She looked in both directions, but saw nothing except trees and snow. As she hunched into her coat, she started as one branch struck another. When she saw a rabbit hop from the underbrush, she laughed shakily.

She would not panic like poor Rose, who had spent her last days in a hysteria which might have led to her death. She hurried along the road, jumping over the ruts where sleds had cut into the ice. The sound of a jack's laughter must not spook her.

Alarm sped through her when a man jumped out from the brush in front of her. The sparkle of steel at his side could be a knife or a gun. He walked toward her, and her eyes widened when she heard his odd laugh again.

“Who are you?” she called. “What do you want?”

He laughed and lunged at her. She fled. Boots pounded the frozen turf behind her. Closer, closer—ever closer, and so loud her rough panting could not cover the sound.

The man caught her arm and whirled her against a tree. She tried to tug away. The flash of a knife froze her.

His massive shoulders could have belonged to any man in camp. In horror, she stared at a hat which was pulled down to conceal the upper half of his face. Eyeholes had been cut through the tattered wool. His brown eyes were filled with malevolent anticipation. A dark beard hid the rest of his face, except for his satisfied smile.

He twisted the blade so the metal caught the day's last light. Laughing, he held the knife in front of her face. She pressed back against the trunk. For the love of heaven, let someone come along the path.

That would not happen. The woods were empty on Sundays.

“You don't scream like they did,” he mused as he shoved the knife up against her throat. “Maybe you're not scared enough yet.”

If she told him her heart was beating so thunderously she had trouble hearing him, he might kill her. To lie could bring the same death. Had he written those horrible notes? Was he the man who had murdered Rose? The one who had smothered Lolly? Was he all three?

She tried to edge around the tree. The dagger against her vulnerable throat paralyzed her. When he laughed, she almost choked on whiskey fumes.

She moaned when he pinned her between himself and the trunk. The rough bark jabbed her spine. The gleam in his eyes warned he was delighting in her despair. Keeping his knife at the base of her throat where her pulse rattled unevenly, he loosened the buttons along her coat.

“Please,” she whispered, “don't do this.”

“I won't hurt you … yet.”

Fear roiled through her. Which one of the jacks wanted her dead?