Anything for You (35 page)

She would have to cook in the kitchen, which was cramped with barrels of molasses and cartons of lard. The tobacco and kerosene from the old wanigan were also stored in there, as well as an extra table and the mattress from her bed. The rest of her furniture would be shipped to Saginaw on a sled with Farley's goods.

As she turned to watch the wanigan set to float on its raft, her gaze was caught by something near what had been the root cellar. Sliding down the steep, slimy embankment, she picked her way across the muddy hole.

Her brow furrowed as she bent to gather up a battered piece of material. The wool was half frozen to the ground. She pried it loose, curious about what could have been dropped beneath the kitchen.

With a horrified gasp, she sat on her heels as she looked at the hat. Two holes had been cut into it at eye level—the hat worn by the man who had attacked her and Adam.

Sickness ate at her. The attacker could not be one of her flunkeys. Hank was too fat to be her assaulter, nor could she imagine grandfatherly Per or gentle Oscar or kindly Bert as that man. But only she and her crew had access to the root cellar, because the door was always closed before the jacks arrived to eat.

Gypsy stuffed the hat into her pocket and climbed out. Wiping her gloves on the filthy snow to clean off the mud, she hurried toward the river. The loggers were crowding the shore. The start of the log drive meant payday at the end.

“What's wrong, Gypsy?”

She looked up to see Adam beside her. Torn between wanting to reveal the truth and begging him to leave her out of his games, she said, “I didn't expect to be so upset to see my home being skidded down to the river.”

His frown did not alter. “Is it bothering you so much that you look like you've been kicked in the gut?”

“How charming! Do you speak this way to all the women in your life?”

Grasping her arms, he kept her from walking away. “You know you're the only woman in my life.”

“I'm the only woman in the life of any jack here!” she retorted to hide her aching need to be held, to be comforted by his strength.

“Are you going to continue to be bullheaded?”

“I'm not using the one I said I love as a lure.”

“I told you my work has nothing to do with what's between us.”

Swallowing her tears, which had come too readily in the past days, she demanded, “What's between us? Distrust?”

“You trusted me enough to tell me the truth about what happened in Virginia.”

With a gasp, she whispered, “Don't!”

“Gypsy, we're alone, or we might as well be. Everyone is watching the wanigan being lashed to the raft.” He put his arm around her waist and drew her into his embrace. “No one's paying attention to us.”

“Then tell
me
the truth you're hiding. Why did Daniel send you here?”

“I've told you.”

“You've told me you're trying to stop Farley from getting killed.”

“Yes.” He sighed. “It's that simple, honey.”

She shook her head. “It's nowhere near that simple. Daniel didn't send you here because someone stole a couple of letters. He must have had cause to believe that Farley was in real danger. What was it?”

“Glenmark couldn't or wouldn't tell me. He just told me to come up here and snoop around. I was to get a job in Farley's office because it was the center of activity.”

Frustration at his evasiveness became fury. “And that's it?”

“Gypsy, when are you going to trust me?”

“When you're honest with me.”

“I am!” He pulled her tight to him. His hand under her chin brought her face up toward him. “I'm honest when I say I love you. And you know
this
is honest.”

Her breath was swept away by the intensity of his lips over hers. Even as she battled the desire swarming through her, she softened against him. She wanted this gentle madness. She wanted to believe him, but … with a sob, she pulled out of his arms and rushed across the snow to where the jacks were spinning tall tales about previous drives.

Adam started to follow her, but paused when he saw her stop to talk with Peabody. His eyes narrowed. She was keeping her hand in her right pocket. Was she hiding something in it? Something she was concealing from him? He had thought she was being honest with him, but she was lying.

Not lies, for she hated falsehoods. She was not telling him everything. Again he wondered why, because he could not doubt her love. He longed to go to where she stood with the crew chief and whirl her into his arms. Then he would spill out the truth which burned in his gut like the need for her warm body.

He should just let her go. She was making it clear she wanted to be left alone, and he should do as she wished. He slapped his hand against a tree. What had he told himself at the beginning of this job? Go in, do what he must to get the man Glenmark had sent him after, and leave. No complications, no connections, no one getting hurt.

His fingers curled into a fist against the tree. For almost a decade, he had been able to keep the vow he had made on that blood-soaked battlefield when he watched his two best friends die.
Don't get your life mixed up with anyone else's. Then you can't get hurt like this again.

That had been such a simple credo to live by until Gypsy's sparkling eyes looked in his direction and he found himself wanting to be an intimate part of her life.

He almost laughed. Now she was giving him a bitter spoonful of his own medicine. She was right. He was using her to find his prey, but why didn't she trust him? He did not want her hurt.

A sardonic laugh bubbled past his lips. He did not want
her
hurt? He had not allowed himself to worry about anyone else since that horrible day during the war. He had just done his job and gotten out with his skin—and his heart—intact.

Folding his arms over his chest, he nodded absently when Bert asked him if he were riding aboard the wanigan. He didn't add he intended to keep a close eye on Gypsy. He had made a mess of everything else, but one thing had not changed. He always found whomever needed to be found. He could not fail now when Gypsy's life depended on him.

The wanigan floated in the sunlight sparkling on the water. Beyond the cove, the river shrieked its spring song. Gypsy inched past the heavy casks and stacks of supplies. The floor rocked gently under her feet. Sunshine inched past the boxes set in front of the window, but did not reach the stove.

Her ears still rang with the clamor of the logs being released from their props on shore. The river hogs had chopped away the wood pegs to release the piles to crash into the river. Spinning like jackstraws, the logs surged along the river, with the wanigan following.

Now all she heard were curses as the men worked on a huge logjam. This was the fourth jam in as many days, but Gypsy had heard this one was major. No one spoke of two years ago when six river hogs had been killed in a jam a few miles downriver. The men had been crushed, their peavey poles, which had guided the logs along the river, floating away untouched. The superstitious jacks would not use a dead river hog's pole.

From the shore, Peabody yelled instructions. He ran along the raft holding the wanigan and crossed the logs as easily as he would a city street.

Ropes anchored the wanigan to a thick tree. The jacks wanted to be sure it was not caught in the rush when the logs erupted into the current again. With a sigh, she realized there was no worry about that happening soon. The logs were packed so tightly in the jam that even Adam should be able to walk along them now.

Adam!

Gypsy looked out at the shore. She had not seen him in three days. The flunkeys had stopped asking where he was but they had made sure she was never alone … until today.

How could she have been so selfish? He might be dead because of her. She could not share that fear with anyone, because she had no idea whom she could trust. Going to where her mattress was hidden behind the stove, she wondered if Adam would still be here with her if she had shown him the tattered wool hat.

She walked back around the stack of flour bags propped against barrels of salt pork and molasses. Flapjacks, coffee, salt pork, pies—an unending repetition of the same meals during three winters.

It was over. She must leave Glenmark Timber Company and not return. Mailing her resignation from Saginaw would allow her to disappear into the Rocky Mountains, where she should be able to find work.

“Look at you, Gypsy Elliott,” she mused as she ran her hands along her waist. “You could become a whore. Nissa would give you a recommendation.” Pain sharpened her laugh into a sob. “If he ever comes back, maybe I should ask Adam for one. After all, I kept him satisfied for as long as love can last for someone like me.” Her shoulders sagged as she gripped the bag. “If he ever comes back.”

“What's that?”

Hope died in her heart as she recognized Bert's strong accent. “Where have you been?” she asked. “I've been waiting for you to load the wagon for almost an hour.”

“Peabody wanted us to 'elp 'im steady some of the logs for the river 'ogs.” He grimaced at his wet trousers. “Our 'elp wasn't worth much. The logs are still stuck. We got back as quickly as we could.”

“I don't mean to be short with you,” she said as the rest of her crew came in to carry the boxes of sandwiches to the wagon. “I don't like to be late serving supper when they've been working so hard all day.”

Bert put pies into a box and handed it to Oscar. “If you want, I'll go with you.”

Pointing to the stove, she urged, “Stay and dry off before you catch your death of cold.”

He hefted the box and followed as she carried the last box of sandwiches. Carefully she stepped off the raft. Her feet sank into the mud. She walked up the hill to where the ground was more solid and thanked Bert as he assisted her onto the driver's seat.

Gypsy picked up the reins and sent the horse along the narrow path worn by the jacks' feet. As the wagon wove among the trees, she heard shouts from where the water was stained blood red by the setting sun. She caught glimpses of water where the trees thinned, but could not see the logjam.

The path turned away from the steep bank. Behind her, the boxes bumped together as the road became even rougher. She wondered if her pies would survive the trip.

If any of them would.

She shivered at the thought. For the love of heaven, why had Adam vanished without saying good-bye? Maybe he was waiting downriver and would meet them when the jam was broken.

“Giddap,” she called to the horse. The sooner the jacks finished their supper, the sooner they could get back to work on breaking up the jam. Then the drive would be under way again.

A crack shattered the air. She shrieked as the wagon rocked. Boxes crashed and tumbled out as the wagon tilted. The horse whinnied in fear.

Clutching the wood plank under her, she pulled back on the reins. Her teeth jarred and pain seared up her arm.

She moaned as she was thrown to the ground. Jumping to her feet, she ran out of the way of the wagon as it fell into the mud. The path was littered with pies and sandwiches—an afternoon's work ruined.

Calming the horse, she squatted to look under the wagon. One wheel was on its side, several spokes cracked. The whole axle was broken.

Leaning her arms on the side of the wagon, she stared at the boxes of food still inside. She could not carry all of them, even if she had a way to get them on the horse. With a curse, she kicked at the wheel. She leaped aside when the wagon collapsed flat onto the road. Mud splattered over her.

She nearly sank to the ground as her unsteady knees folded. If she had been peering under the wagon just then, she would have been killed. Holding her hand over her furiously beating heart, she stood.

A bullet twanged off a tree behind her.

Terror pushed her to run. She had gone only two steps before an arm encircled her waist.

“Let me go!” she screamed, pounding her fists against the broad arm. “Let me go!”

“Gypsy!”

She shoved her panic aside to gasp, “Adam, what are you doing here? Where have you been? I thought—”

Pushing her into the mud behind the wagon, he ordered, “Stay down!” He hefted a rifle. When she tried to scramble to her feet, he grasped her arm. “You still don't trust me, do you?”

“Would you trust me if I pointed that rifle at you?”

The fury tightening his bewhiskered face softened. “Gypsy, did you think
I
was shooting at you?”

“Someone was.”

“But not me.”

She stared up into his eyes, which were shadowed by the deepening twilight. So often she had seen them narrowed in rage, laughing, glittering with desire. Adam loved her and wanted to protect her from her headstrong idiocy.

“Where have you been?” she whispered.

“On a wild goose chase. I intercepted another of the notes. Idiot that I am, I couldn't resist checking it out.” He scanned the woods. “Thank goodness, I'm back in time to save you.” He scowled at the wagon. “You're luckier than Mrs. Glenmark was.”

Gypsy's heart froze in mid beat. How could she have forgotten Sylvia's carriage had crashed with a broken axle? Just like the wagon here. She wanted it to be a coincidence, but she knew it was not.

“Let's go,” Adam said. “Whoever was shooting at you is gone.”

“But who was it?”

“That we need to figure out right away.” Gripping her hand, he stood. A few quick slices with a knife freed the horse from the traces. He scowled at the wagon. “This was no accident.”

She wrapped her arms around her muddy coat. “I don't like to believe someone in the camp would want to hurt me.”

“No?”

When he shoved something into her hands, terror choked her. The wool hat.

“I found this peeking from beneath your pillow when I was going to leave you a message to stay put,” he said as he settled his rifle under his arm. “Who are you trying to protect?”