Anything for You by Jo Ann Ferguson Page B

which had no place in her life. Turning away, she smiled weakly at the camp manager. “Good afternoon. How are you?”
    Farley glanced at Adam, making no effort to hide his disquiet. She risked a peek over her shoulder. Adam’s face was tranquil, as if they had been discussing nothing important.
    Listening to the camp manager greet Adam, she reminded herself a cup of coffee at the end of the day was nothing. Only her reaction to his beguiling touch made it more.
    Adam asked, “Do you want us to get some coffee for the jacks, Gypsy?”
    â€œCoffee?” She ignored Farley’s baffled expression at the squeaked word. Taking a deep breath as Adam grinned, she shook off the cloying delight. “That’s a good idea. Farley, do you want a cup?”
    He shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t. Rose’s expecting me. I told her I’d take her for a sled ride this afternoon.” Tapping his hat into place, he tipped it toward her. “Thanks anyhow, Gypsy.”
    Hearing another smothered chuckle as Farley elbowed his way to the door, Gypsy glared at Adam.
    â€œI think,” he said with a grin, “your friend Farley is sorry he transplanted his sweet Rose here in the north woods.”
    â€œThat’s none of your concern.”
    â€œTrue, but that doesn’t stop any of the jacks from talking about Farley and his light lady. And I’m a jack, aren’t I?”
    She did not lower her gaze from the challenge in his eyes. He wanted her to answer so he could learn what she suspected. Almost laughing, she wondered what he would think if she were honest. She was certain he was no jack.
    Motioning toward the kitchen, Gypsy said, “Get Bert and make up coffee for the jacks. I want to talk to Reverend Frisch.”
    â€œAll right. Gypsy, how about tonight?”
    â€œI’ll let you know later.”
    His gaze followed her as she went to where the sky pilot was passing out recent magazines to the men clustered around a table. She could not escape Adam’s eyes even when she slipped past a tableful of jacks who were writing home under the minister’s supervision. Only when she heard the muted thump of his crutch vanish into the kitchen did her heart slow its frantic beating.
    She released the breath that had been burning in her chest and smiled at Reverend Frisch. “Excellent sermon.”
    â€œI saw your yawn,” he answered, laughing. His face bore the scars of years of riding in the north woods cold. The wind had sucked his skin dry, leaving it as rutted as a dead riverbed.
    â€œNow, Reverend, you know I need Sunday to catch up on sleep.”
    He chuckled. “You need to convince Farley to hire you an assistant.”
    â€œI’ve told him more than once I could use a cookee.”
    â€œI’m sure you have.” He put his boot on the end of a bench and leaned his elbow on his knee. In a voice that did not match the boom of his sermons, he asked, “Is there a problem, Gypsy? You keep glancing at the kitchen as if you expect something to catch on fire.”
    â€œNot really. I’m just waiting for the word that the flunkeys have the swamp water ready.” Another prick of guilt stabbed her as she lied to the minister. “Would you like a cup of coffee before you leave?”
    He pulled his pipe from a pocket of his denims. Putting it into his mouth, he spoke around the stem. “I could use a bit of your swamp water to char these old bones.” He reached into his pocket again, then grimaced like a guilty lad. “And I’ll remember not to smoke. You don’t have to remind me about your rules.”
    â€œIf I didn’t have rules, I’d have Bert and Hank bringing their cheroots into the kitchen. I don’t think the jacks would appreciate ashes in their soup.”
    Gypsy wove through the crowded room. She smiled when she heard the jacks complaining about aching heads after a long night at the Porcelain