Wild Western Women Spring Into Love: A Western Historical Romance Box Set

by Kirsten Osbourne

  "Papa," his son exclaimed. "Leave it alone."

  The father held up his hand to silence his son. Then he reached out and took Bella's hand. "Nice to meet you, Miss Sullivan. And yes, we will set a time and a place for our bake off."

  "Let me know," she said and walked away.

  She tried not to laugh, but she couldn't help herself. The older man was having difficulty accepting he lost. And giving him another chance at winning seemed the nicest way to make him feel better. But she had gotten what she needed from the contest.

  Now the town knew she could cook. Hopefully Abigail would help her and the two of them could find a way to get her bakery up and running.

  The next morning, Bella was laying out her latest pastries in the mercantile when the bell above the door rang. Franco Ruffini walked through the entrance.

  "Good morning," she called.

  "Good morning, Miss Bella," he said. "I love your name by the way, so I hope you don't mind if I call you by your given name."

  She shrugged. "That's fine. How can I help you?"

  She couldn't help but wonder if his son was not far behind him. She wouldn't mind catching a glimpse of the younger Mr. Ruffini again. But she also enjoyed talking to the older gentleman. They shared a common love of baking, and she loved to hear the Italian accent that tinged his voice.

  "I came to try some of your pastries. I want to taste what beat my castagnoli," he said.

  Bella smiled. "I know this must be hard on you after winning for ten years."

  "I'm an old man. You could have waited until I was gone before you showed me up."

  A little tinge of guilt zinged its way up her spine, but then again, she'd won fairly, and it wasn't her fault the judges thought her peach turnovers the best they'd ever eaten. "I'm honored my recipe beat someone who has been the best in town for so long. It makes me feel proud."

  The old man raised his brows at her. "Humph. That's nice. Now, give me one of those peach pastries and let me try it."

  The old coot was certainly demanding. But she didn't think Abigail would mind that she'd let him have one of the pastries she was selling. "Here this one just came out of the oven fewer than fifteen minutes ago."

  After placing the pastry on a cloth napkin she handed it to him.

  Frowning at the fluffy, flaky delicacy, he took a bite and let the tastes flood his tongue. Licking his lips, his eyes darkening, he took a second bite. "Butter and a light sprinkling of sugar are on top of the baked dough."

  She was impressed that he recognized the ingredients in the pastry. Some were obvious, but to admit he could taste her special touches fascinated her.

  "Yes, I brushed melted butter on the dough before baking and a dash of sugar on top, which bakes into the soft flour mixture while it's in the oven."

  Why was she sharing her secrets with him, when he was the one vowing to win back the title of best baker in town?

  He glanced around at the store. "Why are you here? Why do you not have a bakery?"

  How could she answer that question when she was hiding? She would love to own her own bakery, but she couldn't own anything until she came out of hiding. And she wasn't ready to do that just yet.

  "Does this mean you like it?"

  "I'm the champion you unseated. You expect me to say I think you are a better baker?" His eyes widened and grew more intense like he was angry. "Never will I admit such a thing."

  Sighing, she shook her head. The old man was certainly certain of his baking abilities. "I was only inquiring if you liked the turnover. Not whether I am a better cook."

  "Oh," he said sullenly. He licked his lips. "I'm still a better baker than you. But this is surprisingly good."

  She almost laughed out loud. He liked her pastry, but he wasn't ready to concede defeat. She wondered what her baking teacher, Viola, would have thought of Mr. Ruffini.

  "Thank you."

  "What kind of oven are you using to bake these in?"

  "I do what I can with what I have. I'm using my friend Abigail's stove. It's not bad." She didn't want to upset her friend by telling her the stove she was using was one of the original models. Her kitchen needed upgrading, but right now, Abigail was focused on enhancing her store. "Besides, I do this because I enjoy working with the flour. It makes me happy."

  The old man threw his hands into the air, fingers spread wide, face contorted into an expression that displayed disgust. "You cooked like this without the proper oven?"

  "Yes," she said softly watching as he became almost enraged.

  Suddenly, he was speaking a different language, fast, his arms flailing. She'd realized from the moment she met him that he was Italian, but it was almost comical watching him so agitated at the idea she'd used an old oven and cursing at her in his native language.

  "I don't understand you."

  Finally, he stopped, took a deep breath and sighed. "Forgive me. But you have a natural God-given gift and you're not using it to your advantage."

  What could she say? She was hiding from her family, hoping her father would never think to check a small town not far from Mineral Wells, Texas, where her best friend in college and her fellow suffragette lived. "It's the best I can do."

  He glanced around the store. “You should have your own shop. A place where your pastries were sold. And bread.”

  Why she didn’t was simple. No money. She'd just arrived, and until about a month ago, there was an ordinance in town that women couldn't own a business. “Maybe someday. New Hope is not exactly open to women striking out on their own and I haven’t been in town long."

  Though she knew in her heart, the thought of owning her own bakery had appealed for many years. But her father had not approved. He'd called it her hobby. Something to keep her occupied until she had children and social obligations like her mother. Like all women of class were expected to act. And being in the kitchen baking, was not on the list of approved skills. That was for servants.

  “Long enough to beat me.”

  She smiled.

  The bell tinkled over the door and Bella looked up to see Luca walk in. She noticed the way his long legs walked determined toward his father, his jet-black hair long in the front, but clipped closely to his ears. Seeing his father, his eyes flashed with annoyance.

  "Papa, what are you doing here? She won the competition. Now ,let it go," he said, coming up behind him. "I'm so sorry."

  Bella smiled at the handsome man. "It's all right." She held out her hand. The man's dark eyes seemed to envelop her and warmth flooded her mid-section. "I'm Bella Sullivan."

  "Luca," he said. "We sort of introduced ourselves yesterday, but I didn't want to draw any more attention than we already were."

  "It's okay."

  Franco gazed between the two.

  "I hope he hasn't been rude."

  "I am not rude," Franco said, not even looking at his son.

  She laughed. Mr. Ruffini had actually made her morning quite interesting and the son was brightening her day even more. "No, we've been talking about baking. He wanted to taste my turnovers. Now, I would like to taste his castagnoli."

  The old man smiled and clapped his hands. "And you shall. I will make a special batch just for you. You will taste the richness of flavor in the dough."

  "I can hardly wait," Bella said, knowing she would enjoy his creation.

  "Bakers have been in my family for generations," he said. "You will see."

  Odd that his son hadn't taken over the bakery. She wondered what Luca did for a living.

  “Do you bake?”

  He shrugged. “I can, but I’d rather not.”

  Odd that the son seemed to almost distance himself from the very idea of working with dough.

  "Papa, we need to go and let Miss Sullivan do her job."

  Bella was enjoying looking at the handsome young man and his very interesting father. "Oh, it's okay. I help out Abigail and she gives me room and board. I want to earn my own living off my pastries."

  Luca nodd
ed, gaze seeming to fixate on her and she could feel herself blushing. She glanced away but spoke to the young man. "What about you, Mr. Ruffini? What do you do for a living?"

  "Right now, I work in the fields."

  Franco rolled his eyes and said something in Italian. She couldn't help but smile at Luca, trying to ignore his father.

  "Papa, stop."

  "Why should I stop? The wine is good, but the flour and the yeast go better with the wine. You need a good fresh bread to go with the wine."

  Luca's face tightened with annoyance. "We really must go. My errands are done, and I must get back to work."

  She looked at Franco. "I'm glad you came in this morning. I enjoy talking about baking."

  The old man's eyes lit up excitedly. "Thank you, and I will bring you some castagnoli soon."

  "I'm looking forward to it."

  She watched them walk out and admired the way the son seemed to look out for his father. And his looks were enough to make any girl's heart beat a little faster.

  Chapter 2

  Stepping out of the mercantile, Luca glanced at his father wishing he could rail at him about going into the store, but what could he say. He respected and loved the man, but sometimes he could cause more trouble. "Papa, why did you go see her. She won honestly."

  Wagons rolled down the main street of town, dust rising from their wheels, as they walked the wooden sidewalk toward the feed store.

  "Humph. I am still the best baker in this town. She has the gift, but no one bakes better pastries than Franco Ruffini," he said raising his hand in a triumphant gesture. "I don't care what the judges say."

  "Well, yesterday they thought she was better," Luca reminded his father.

  "They were blinded by her beauty." His father glanced up at him. "She is nice. But you're not infatuated with her, are you?"

  Luca glanced at his father like he was crazy. Yes, the woman was beautiful with her dark hair curling over her shoulder, her gentle smile and earthy brown eyes that sparkled with laughter. She'd seemed sweet and innocent and her full lips were ripe for kissing.

  But he had a vineyard to plant and soil to prepare and a wine cellar to build. And women often told you what they wanted you to hear, whether they meant it or not. He didn't have time for games or love or even courting. He had his family business to make certain remained profitable.

  "Of course not. My focus is not on women, but getting the vineyard up and running."

  It wasn't a lie. Sure, he'd had women, but since his father's illness, life seemed more urgent. Time was running out, and he needed to replace their income.

  "Good. She is not an Italian girl. Your mother and I’s marriage was arranged by our parents. You should let me find you a nice Italian girl. I could contact my brother and see if he knows of anyone. Someone like your mother."

  Oh dear God, that was not going to happen. "Arrange a marriage for Cara. She's almost of age."

  His father shook his head vehemently. "No. I'm not ready for her to get married. Besides, you're almost twenty-eight years of age. It's time."

  Since his father's illness, he'd become insistent it was time for Luca to marry. This started not long after pneumonia almost killed Franco. The doctor had not expected him to live, but at sixty years of age, he was once again healthy and now that they'd made the decision to close the bakery, Luca thought he was often bored.

  "When it's right, I'll meet a girl. But until then, I've got work to do."

  Yes, Luca was working very hard right now. But he didn't want to take a chance on his father ruining his health again. He didn't want him getting up early and going to the bakery. He didn't want him standing on his feet all day, either baking or dealing with customers. This was Franco's time to rest and enjoy life. While Luca learned the family business and expanded it in a new direction as he took care of his brother and sister.

  "And if you only work and never enjoy the arms of a woman or the pleasure of their company, you will be a very dull man. Your mother, God rest her soul, gave me the happiest years of my life. She showed me what was important. You think you know what is important in life, but you're all work and no play."

  If Luca didn't love his family so much, he would have left. But they were everything, even when his father was being difficult. "Papa, once the vineyard is up and running, then I will either find some girl to marry or I will let you find me a woman."

  Franco shook his head, raising his hand dramatically. "The vineyard will not be fully functional for several years. The vines, they take time to mature and grow. I told you we should never have closed the bakery."

  "And I told you I didn't want to walk in one day and find you dead on the floor."

  His father shrugged nonchalantly like it didn't matter, but it did to Luca. He'd already lost one parent; he wasn't ready to lose his father.

  "I would have died a happy man amongst the flour."

  "The doctor said for you not to be on your feet working twelve to fourteen hours a day."

  "But I enjoyed what I was doing."

  They had this same argument at least once a week and Luca knew his response by heart.

  "Then do it at home."

  "It’s not the same."

  "If you want to see me married and with bambinos then you can't be working in the bakery. Plus Cara and Ricci, they want their father to be around when they're grown."

  His father sighed. "One day you will face this challenge from your son. And you won't like it."

  "And I will remember our conversation. But until then, you should enjoy your life."

  Franco was silent as they walked through the small town to the wagon sitting out front of the feed store. "You could be in your thirties before the vineyard is producing wine."

  "You're repeating yourself. Drop it, Papa," Luca said.

  Right now, he didn't have time for a woman. So much was hanging on him selling the bakery. Then he could purchase the wine making equipment he needed. The bottles, corks, and barrels. There was so much to do, and yet, Bella Sullivan was someone who he couldn't help but think about.

  The woman intrigued him. She'd beaten his father at the festival and no one had ever out baked his father. And then today, she'd accepted the old man coming over to challenge her win. It was like they seemed to understand one another and that surprised him.

  Yes, Bella Sullivan was an interesting woman, but he didn't have time to explore her soft curves or the fullness of her delicious mouth.

  Chapter 3

  At dinner that night, after the mercantile had closed at five, Jack Turner, Abigail's fiancé sat at the head of the table. Once her friends arrived, they would be wed. Bella couldn't help but think how far they all had come since the day they'd spent in jail almost three months ago. They'd marched upon a bank in Boston that refused to give women loans and found themselves locked up.

  After that, Abigail returned home to New Hope to take care of her ailing father. A week after Abigail left, Bella received a telegram stating her father would be arriving in Boston to take her back to St Louis. He'd found a man to marry her. She had packed her bags and boarded the next train to Fort Worth and then taken a stage to New Hope.

  Abigail had invited their friends to help her change the town, and Bella couldn’t wait for them to arrive and see the task before them.

  "When do you think the suffragettes will arrive?" Bella asked.

  "Any day,” Abigail said, smiling at Jack who shook his head. “I'm sure they had to wrap up things in Boston before they headed west. And not everyone will come, but still, it will be great to see who decides to try their luck here and who stays in Boston."

  "Do you think Diamond will come?" Bella asked, thinking of their flamboyant friend whose family life was the stuff dime novels were made of.

  "Yes, I think Diamond and Callie will come. Emma's in medical school, and last I heard, Faith went back to college. Georgia may come, but I don't know for certain, and Haley went home to get married. So at least three might show up on our door
step. I can't wait."

  It would be so good to see their friends again. And to watch the reaction of this small town to the women’s attempts to modernize the west.

  Jack groaned. "You ladies are going to be the death of me. First, my lovely Abigail annihilates a law that has been on the books for years, and now three more of you strong-willed women will arrive and try to stay out of trouble and keep the men in this town happy. This is my last year of being mayor. Someone else can take on this task."

  Abigail smiled at Jack and reached over and patted him on the hand. "That's because you're going to be very busy opening your new apothecary next door."

  "We should start taking a serious look at property for the suffragettes to rent for their businesses," Bella said, knowing she was thinking of herself. She wished she could dip into her trust fund and build herself a bakery, but she knew that was impossible. Touching her trust fund would be a road map to her whereabouts. Wouldn’t Daddy love that?

  Somehow she was going to find a way to build her bakery, even if that meant she did nothing but sell her items in Abigail's mercantile until she had the cash she needed. She would go to the bank, but they might alert her father to her desire for her funds. And that wouldn’t do, at all. The one thing she wanted as much as her own bakery was staying hidden from her father and his choice of her bridegroom.

  "Whoa, wait just a minute," Jack said. "Let's not put the cart before the horse. We don't know for certain that the women are going to arrive."

  "Oh, they'll be here," Abigail said with certainty. "Think of it this way, once they arrive we'll be able to set a date for our wedding."

  The man grinned. "Then I guess all the trouble coming with their arrival will be okay."

  Abigail had stayed the biggest hurdle for the women. She'd gotten the city to cancel and rewrite the law regarding women owning a business. Now everyone could open a store or a place to sell their goods and wares.

  Bella laughed, she couldn't help herself. "In a town that doesn't want women to own property, a business, or do anything besides take care of their families, what makes you think five single suffragette women can make a difference."