SHE WAS GOING to hell, for sure. Petunia Wayfield stepped off the rough board walkway into the dirt street, barely missing a pile of excrement left by some animal. Dust rose in a puff around her skirts. It’d been a long spell since the last rain. If this drought kept up another month, Christmas was going to be a dusty affair. Shielding her eyes against the late-morning sun, Petunia chided her morals. Here she was, fresh out of a sermon on the seven deadly sins, and she was about to commit two of the worst: the sins of gluttony and—she paused before stepping back up onto the opposite walk—lust. And she blamed it all on Maddie Miller’s cinnamon rolls. Because if Petunia had never smelled the delicious aroma of those baked goods wafting out from beneath the pink-and-white awning that decorated the front of Maddie’s bakery, she never would have stepped through the door the very moment that Ace Parker had stepped out. Would never have smashed her face into his chest; would never have associated the temptation of cinnamon rolls with the scent of hot, masculine man. At least that’s what she told herself. Because it was what any rational, practical woman would tell herself. Even if it was a lie.
With a sigh, Petunia continued on toward the bakery. It wasn’t like she needed that cinnamon roll. At almost thirty, she didn’t need the soft, warm, delicious, yeasty bun filled with fragrant cinnamon and topped with a melted sugar glaze to add to her womanly shape, but she wanted it. She also didn’t need a six-foot-plus tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, no-better-than-he-needed-to-be-maybe-worse-than-some, smart-mouthed gambler like Ace. But, she admitted resignedly as she opened the bakery door and the little bell jingled announcing her presence, Petunia wanted him, too. With the same shameless, mouthwatering, crave-it-no-matter-what lust that had her slipping out on a sermon early to satiate her need for decadence.
On some level Petunia had always felt that she was just one reckless decision from slipping into dissolution. Which was a sad thing for the only daughter of the pillar of Benton, Massachusetts, society to be admitting. Her father liked to blame her wayward tendencies on the flaw in his upbringing after her mother’s early demise. She preferred to call those tendencies progressive thinking. It was a point they’d never agreed upon and which had sent her West on her own without her father’s financial support. And the expected outcome of that venture was yet another bone of contention. He expected her to fail at establishing her business in California while she expected to succeed. She just needed her luck back.
She swore she’d never had such a run of bad luck as she’d had since leaving Benton. First, the stagecoach had broken down in Simple. Which wouldn’t have been so bad except the one-night stay at that supposed boardinghouse on the edge of town had resulted in her being robbed of all her money except the few coins she’d sewn into her petticoat... Only the love life of the local schoolmarm had saved her from ruin, or worse yet, having to send a letter home to her father asking for help. That was an absolute last resort. Petunia Wayfield was not a woman that failed.
The aroma of sweet dough and cinnamon surrounded her in a blissful hug as she pushed the door closed. Petunia closed her eyes and breathed deeply, drawing the comfort in. This was what she needed, the occasional sensual indulgence, not an ongoing challenge like Ace Parker.
Liar, the little voice inside whispered.
She took another breath, fighting the truth. For the first time in her life, she actually wanted, genuinely wanted, a man. But it couldn’t be some nice steady man of business. Oh, no. True to the contrariness of a nature her father bemoaned as misplaced in a woman, she had to lust after a man who was completely wrong for her. A man whose way of life mocked her beliefs. A man for whom, if she did succumb, she’d be nothing more than a toy. Everything inside rejected the notion. She was no man’s toy. She was a modern woman, an independent woman, a woman who intended to have the vote one day. She was not any man’s plaything.
“It does my baker’s heart good to see you step through that door and take in that first breath like you’ve just found heaven.” Maddie Miller interrupted her thoughts with her usual sweet cheerfulness.
Petunia opened her eyes and smiled at Maddie standing behind the counter, a big white apron covering her green dress, flour dusting her freckled cheek and stray curls of red hair escaping her bun. The one thing Petunia prided herself on was not being silly.
“Probably because I just did.” A board squeaked as she stepped up to the low counter. “Your cinnamon buns are my one weakness, I’m afraid.”
Again that whisper of liar.
As if she heard the silent rebuke, Maddie paused, a tray of just risen rolls in her hand.
“I don’t know why people think weaknesses are bad.”
Because only the strong survived. Petunia bit her tongue on the comment.
“If a body is never weak, how would they ever know what they needed?” Maddie asked, swapping the trays and putting the hot, unfrosted rolls on the counter beside a bowl of frosting before closing the oven door.
For that Petunia didn’t have an answer. “That’s a good point.” Darn it.
Maddie just smiled and dropped the cloth she’d been using to carry the hot pan beside it. Resting her hands on her hips she stretched her back and gave Petunia a knowing glance. “Besides, there are some weaknesses that are just plain enjoyable.”
And that fast Petunia felt laid open and vulnerable. “Not in my experience.”
“Maybe you don’t have enough experience.”
There was a time when Petunia had thought Maddie a bit, well, simplistic, but soon she’d seen the real woman. The woman who’d started her own business from nothing but scratch and need, a woman who’d won the heart of the notorious Caden Miller. A woman who’d refused her husband until he respected her independence. Looking at the petite redhead on the other side of the counter, Petunia found it hard to believe someone so soft-looking could be so determined, but it was just another reminder of how one shouldn’t judge by appearances. Maddie could be a very focused woman. And right now she was uncomfortably focused on Petunia.
“Have you seen Ace this afternoon?” Maddie asked with a nonchalance Petunia couldn’t imitate.
“No. Should I have?”
“I heard he had words with Brian Winter at the saloon last night.”
Petunia handed Maddie the bowl of frosting. “Why would that concern me?”
Maddie rolled her eyes and took it. “I have no idea. Outside of the fact you’re unhappy with Brian and the way he treats his son.”
Petunia licked the sweet glaze off her finger. Brian Winter was a brute to the helpless. But Ace Parker was far from helpless. “If Brian was at the saloon, it was to gamble. It only stands to reason any fighting that went on had to do with cards or money or both.”
“Uh-huh.”
She ignored the skepticism. “Mr. Parker is not the civic-minded sort.”
“You like to believe that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Maddie didn’t argue the point. “He can’t be all bad. He’s the region assayer.”
“For reasons of his own, I’m sure.”
Maddie looked up from the frosting she was stirring. “It’s a respectable job.”
“He probably won it in a poker game.”
The wood spoon thumped against the side of the crockery bowl. Maddie switched the subject. “How was the reverend’s sermon this morning? He sounded all riled up, even from over here.”
He had been, for sure. “He was enthusiastic and as motivating as ever.”
“About what today?”
Petunia smiled slightly. “The sin of turning the other cheek.”
“That’s a sin?” Maddie asked, pouring glaze over