Anything for You Read Free Page A

Hallmark? You speak pretty fancy for a jack.”
    He chuckled and shrugged. “Blame my parents. They believed a classical education was more important than teaching a boy how to survive in this world.”
    â€œYou learned a lesson in that today.” Again she smiled in spite of herself. “You should leave the rough work to folks who can handle it.”
    â€œLike you?”
    â€œLike me.” She motioned toward the kitchen. “Come along. The bread should be ready, and there are potatoes to peel and gravy to make before the men come back for supper.”
    â€œThat’s only an hour or so from now.”
    â€œExactly.” Her smile became as cold as the snow glittering beyond the single window. “Welcome to the cookhouse, Mr. Lassiter. I wouldn’t be surprised if, in a few days, you’ll be begging that ankle to heal at top speed so you can return to the soft life of a jack.”
    Adam almost laughed, but saw she meant her words. As she went into the kitchen, he grimaced. This job was going to take more time than he had thought. He had been a fool to think he was prepared for the worst the north woods could hand out. No doubt Gypsy Elliott intended to teach him what the worst could be.

CHAPTER TWO
    If her crew was amazed that Gypsy had returned with a new flunkey, they were wise enough to keep their opinions to themselves. Adam said nothing when the four men stared at him. He could not keep from smiling as he took a deep breath. Roast venison. His stomach grumbled, reminding him he had not eaten since breakfast, when he had washed down a slice of dried bread with a mouthful of melted snow.
    He whistled under his breath. How did Gypsy and her crew work here? The kitchen was no bigger than the dining room. Like all the buildings in the camp, the cookhouse had been built of pine logs. The sole window was nearly hidden behind a massive cast-iron stove. With barrels edging the walls, there was barely enough room for the table in the middle of the floor. Bowls and cooking utensils were set on crooked shelves over the barrels, and huge cooking pots were stacked beside the stove. Overhead, each rafter supported boxes of salt and sugar. Two doors were set on the wall to his left, and he wondered where they went. He would check as soon as he had a chance.
    Adam forced a smile when Gypsy rattled off the other men’s names before she asked, “Bert, did you get that barrel from the storage room?”
    â€œNot yet, Gypsy.”
    â€œDon’t let us delay you.”
    Bert nodded.
    Fascinated, Adam listened as she asked each man what he had been doing. She was not reluctant to give praise, but she was just as ready to reprimand. Farley had been right. She would be a demanding boss.
    â€œGypsy,” he began when she paused to take a breath.
    â€œWait here.” She pointed to a bench by the table.
    Adam smiled when she hurried to talk to the wide man standing by the open oven door. Hank Johnson, if he recalled correctly. That Gypsy had not waited to see if he obeyed was further warning she was not used to having her orders questioned. Not that he should be surprised. She was the “kingbee.”
    He silenced his chuckle as he lowered himself gingerly to the bench. His leg ached worse than he had guessed it would.
    He had not guessed he would end up in the cookhouse. He tried to convince Farley to let him work in the camp manager’s office as a clerk or an inkslinger, as the jacks would say. Instead, he had been sent to the kitchen to slave under a red-haired taskmaster.
    Adam winced as he adjusted his left leg and tried to make himself more comfortable on the narrow bench. The cast must weigh as much as the stove. He had not worn it more than two hours, and already his skin burned along the plaster edges and itched beneath it.
    â€œProblem?” asked a young voice.
    â€œNothing a few weeks won’t cure,” he answered as he grinned at the light-haired boy