Hello and welcome to Romance Recipes! Every Thursday and Friday I will introduce you to a new author and a new recipe! Two of my favorite things! This week I am bringing you author, Margery Scott, and her recipe for Blueberry Streusel Cake along with an introduction to her romance, Cade (The Morgan’s of Rocky Ridge Series). Please join me in welcoming Margery and savor her recipe for Blueberry Streusel Cake as you read about her new book!
Even in the mid-1800’s when Cade and his family lived in Colorado, wild blueberries were plentiful. I like to think Cade’s mother might have baked this cake for him and his cousins (using wild blueberries instead of fruit from the supermarket.)
Blueberry Streusel Cake
½ cup butter or margarine, softened
¾ cup granulated sugar
3 large eggs
1 tsp vanilla
1 cup milk
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 tbsp baking powder
1-1/2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp nutmeg
1 tsp salt
3 cups blueberries (thaw if frozen)
¾ cup flour
¾ cup quick cooking rolled oats
¾ cup brown sugar, packed
½ cup butter or margarine
Cream butter and sugar in mixing bowl. Beat in eggs, one at a time. Add vanilla and milk. Mix.
Add flour, baking powder, cinnamon, nutmeg and salt. Stir slowly to moisten. Continue to stir until smooth. Spread in a greased 9×13″ pan. Sprinkle with blueberries.
Streusel Topping: Measure flour, rolled oats and brown sugar into a bowl. Cut in butter until crumbly. Spread over blueberries. Bake at 350 degrees for 40-50 minutes.
When revenge leads Cade Morgan to hold up a stagecoach and kidnap his childhood friend, Isabella Morrow, he discovers his feelings for her are stronger than ever. He suspects Bella feels the same way, so why is she intent on marrying another man? And what kind of future can he offer her now that he’s wanted by the law?
Isabella Morrow closed her eyes, blocking out the landscape outside the stagecoach and wishing it could be that easy to shut out her travelling companion. She’d been listening to the drone of the man’s voice all morning until she was ready to open the door and hurl herself onto the trail outside just to escape.
Through hooded lids, she cast a glance at him. Benjamin Wick. Slim to the point of appearing gaunt, he’d always made her uncomfortable. Why her father had sent him of all people to escort her home, she couldn’t fathom. She’d always thought man was arrogant, overbearing, and downright insufferable. Now that she’d been forced to endure his company for the past few days, she was sure of it. He reminded her of death. Why, she couldn’t say, but something about his appearance, his demeanor, even his voice, made her think about dying. Yet her father trusted him implicitly.
He sat opposite her, his long legs stretched out, one arm slung across the back of the seat. “Please stop talking, Mr. Wick,” she begged, “I have a dreadful headache. I’d like to try to rest for a little while.”
“Ah, headaches,” he murmured, quieter now, but still rattling on. “Now when I served under General Zachary Taylor back in … when was that? Oh, yes, back at the Battle of Monterrey, I had a headache almost every day. Made me violently ill, too—”
“Mr. Wick! Please. Stop.”
His eyes narrowed. He glared at her, but at least he stopped talking. She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes again, hoping this time the silence would last for more than thirty seconds.
She heard him muttering, but although she couldn’t quite make out his words, it sounded like, “Dobson’s going to have his hands full with that one.”
At the mention of her future husband’s name, a shudder swept over her. Edward was almost twice her age, his body gone to flab and his hair already thinning. Which would be a little easier to overlook if he didn’t have the personality of a lizard.
She never would have agreed to this marriage if it wasn’t so important to her father. Every day, he pressured her, reminding her that she wasn’t getting any younger, that he wanted an heir to take over the ranch one day. She understood. He’d built the ranch from a small patch of dirt into one of the wealthiest properties in the state. He’d raised her alone, and given her everything she’d ever wanted. How could she refuse the only thing he’d ever asked of her?
But how could marry a man she didn’t even like?
For the past several days while she was caring for her ailing aunt in Colorado Springs, she’d fantasized about disappearing instead of going home. But her father would be frantic with worry, which certainly wouldn’t help the heart condition he’d recently developed. No, she couldn’t do that to him.
Then, as if her father had been able to read her mind, Mr. Wick had arrived on her aunt’s doorstep to escort her back.
And now, here she was, only a few miles from Silverdale, only a few days from a wedding she dreaded.
“What the blazes–?”
Isabella’s eyes flew open at Mr. Wick’s outburst and the sudden jostling of the stage as it bounced over the uneven ground. Straightening, she grabbed the strap dangling from the roof of the coach. “What is it, Mr. Wick?”
“Look for yourself,” he said. “Outlaws.”
Isabella’s heart lurched in her chest. Outlaws! Killers! The ridiculous thought popped into her head that at least if she was murdered on her way home, she wouldn’t have to marry Edward.
She peered through the window, squinting through the clouds of dust at three figures on horseback approaching from behind.
Mr. Wick drew a gun out of his holster and pointed it out the window. He took aim at one of the riders bearing down on them. Before he had a chance to fire, he let out a howl and the gun flew out of his hand. He pulled his arm back inside the coach and cradled it against his chest.
“Are you hurt?” Isabella asked, her eyes widening.
“No,” he replied. “He shot the gun right out of my hand.”
Other shots rang out. Loud voices carried through the open window, and the stage stopped with a jolt.
“Do something, Mr. Wick!”
“What the devil do you expect me to do without a gun, Isabella?”
Suddenly, the door flew open, crashing against the side of the stage. A tall, broad-shouldered man filled the small space, his nose and mouth hidden by a black bandanna. A pale blue shirt clung to his wide chest and disappeared into the waist of black canvas trousers. A few strands of sun-streaked chestnut hair had escaped from the dust-covered hat covering his head and curled on his forehead. Eyes the color of fine whiskey and ringed by dark lashes met hers.
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A transplanted Scot, Margery now divides her time between her home on a lake in Canada and a small house in central Florida.
To Margery, writing in only one genre is like eating only one kind of candy. Boring. A late bloomer, Margery didn’t start writing until she found herself with an empty nest, some free time, and an old standard typewriter her father found somewhere she’d rather not think about. She still has the empty nest on a lake far away from the city, but the typewriter has been replaced by a computer and free time is a thing of the past. Margery writes all across the genre board as the muse and the mood hit her, but these days she tends to stick to either historical romance or romantic suspense. When she’s not writing or traveling in search of the perfect setting for her next novel, you can usually find her wielding a pair of knitting needles or a pool cue.
Thank you for joining us for another Romance Recipe! I hope you’ll stop by next week to meet another author, try a new recipe and read a new book!