When the Black Roses Grow Read Free Page A

hand shoved against the old wooden gate. Nearly missing the board, the lumber nicked my finger as it swung on the rusted hinges.
    My shoes pounded the porch before I dashed through my front door, then slammed it behind me with a loud thud.
    My knees hit the wooden floor and I buried my face in my hands.
    I could not hath conjured those flowers. No, I refuse to believe it. I am simply me. Simply a woman. Simply a powerless woman. Witches do not exist . . . witches do not exist.

TWO
    The crisp spring air chilled my bones as I stepped outside.
    Just before dawn, the sun barely peaked through the trees, and the rays of light flecked against the wood logs of my home. Not blinding to the eye, but bright enough, the glittered hues of orange and red bounced off the dark brown.
    My herd of nanny goats called from their pen. Their bellowing bleats echoed across the garden as I ambled toward them with ropes in my hand. Unbeknown to them, their breakfast still sat on the porch in buckets, and there it would remain.
    Ducks scattered around my feet as my shoes crunched through the fallen leaves and twigs. In their hasty retreats, strewn feathers floated in the air a few seconds before landing upon tufts of grass or in sprays of weeds. Their incessant quacks caused a rousing stir in the drake who was nothing short of a mean spirit when he felt threatened.
    Lord, how I prefer chickens.
    Although, chicken feathers littered my yard alongside the duck feathers, so I suppose foul is foul—chickens, ducks, what did it matter to own either of them? They both give me plenty of eggs, both made wonderful stew, and both hath the talent for falling prey to a stray canine or a hawk looking for breakfast or supper.
    I suppose the only difference between the fowl was the annoying morning crow of my rooster over the peaceful silence of my drake, unless messed with, of course.
    “Can I help ya this mornin’, Mis’ress Hawthorne?” Jeb called out.
    His appearance caught me a little off guard and I spun around to face him. “I did not know thou would be here this morning.”
    “I thought I’d come by and fix that broken fencepost in the garden.”
    He set down the shovel in his hands and trotted over to me with a broad smile on his dirt stained face. One of Deacon Goodwin’s farm hands, Jeb often visited to help with chores I could not handle on my own—his efforts appreciated, although I feared for his safety when here.
    “Doth Deacon Goodwin know you are here?”
    “Got all my chores done this mornin’ ‘fore I left. Titana say it’d be fine.”
    “Jeb, if Deacon Goodwin discovers thee missing or learns of thy benevolence, especially toward me, then Hell would hath no fury like him. He will not hesitate to punish you.”
    “He won’t find out.”
    I bit my tongue in hesitation and pondered if I should pursue my honesty or at least to bestow another word of caution.
    “So, where ya headin’ this mornin’?” A bead of sweat dripped from Jeb’s forehead and he wiped it away with the dirty sleeve of his arm before putting both hands on his hips.
    “I am off to meet a man along the traveling road near the bridge to barter the goats for a milk cow.”
    “Ya need company?”
    I shook my head. “You know you cannot accompany me.”
    He groaned under his breath. “Ya shouldn’t go alone.”
    “Ah, but ‘tis a beautiful morning with the sun illuminating the sky in shades of pink and purple, I believe I shall enjoy a stroll alone.” Bestowing him a smile, I hoped to convey my reassurance.
    “Ya sure do love ya colored skies, don’tcha?” he laughed.
    “A lesson instilled from my mother, I suppose.”
    His gaze lowered to the ground and he kicked a rock with tip of his shoe. “She was a good woman, real nice, and had a kind heart. Titana talks of her often.”
    “Yes, she was.” The one subject I wished not to think of—if my memory would even allow—played on the forefront of my mind. “I suppose I should collect the goats. I