Page 43 of Where the Roses Bloom

“The Wards were one of the first families in Willow Grove,” I said. “Back in the early 1700s, before Georgia was even a formal colony. They staked their claim near the river bend—land that was wild, fertile, sacred. They didn’t come with much, but the land gave back. Hazel always said it knew us.”

Willow watched me closely, her fingers tightening around mine.

“But the story doesn’t start with the land. It starts with Ezekiel Ward—one of our ancestors. A hard, pious man, devout to a fault. He led the charge when folks in Willow Grove accused a midwife named Isadora Stratham of witchcraft. They said she was consortin’ with devils, usin’ heretical practices. But all she did was help a woman through childbirth usin’ herbs and prayers Ezekiel didn’t like.”

Willow’s brows knit, her jaw tightening.

“They burned her herb garden. Called her a heretic. Hung her from a tree not two miles from where our barn sits now. But before she died, she cursed him.”

I could still hear Hazel’s voice the first time she told it…deadly serious, like it wasn’t just a story.

“Let love be your ruin. Let your line bloom, but never hold.Let your sons be kind and brave…but never to find love that lasts. And let each and every one of your daughters be the witches you couldn’t burn.”

Willow sucked in a sharp breath, her hand clutching the sheet tighter.

“Ever since,” I said, “no Ward man has ever kept the woman he loves. They die. They leave. Somethin’ always takes them. And the Ward women…they’ve always been a little different. Wild-hearted. Strong. Witchy, some folks say. But not many survive past thirty. Hazel used to say they burned too bright to last.”

Willow sat in silence, her knuckles pale where they gripped the edge of the sheet. Her eyes didn’t leave mine—not even to blink.

“That’s…” she breathed. “That’s horrifying.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“And Hazel believed it? Like, really believed it?”

“She wouldn’t talk about it with just anyone,” I said. “But with me and Silas? Yeah. She believed. Said it explained things that nothin’ else could. Our parents. Silas’s fiancée. The way love never lasted around here—not for the Wards. Said she spent half her life tryin’ to find a way to undo it.”

“Did she ever find anything?” she asked.

“She claimed she had bits and pieces. Old letters, journals. She used to say, ‘The past leaves breadcrumbs if you know where to look.’ But toward the end, she got…protective. Like maybe she was scared of what she’d stirred up.”

Willow leaned forward, the blanket falling to her waist, her bare skin glowing in the morning light. “Do you think she left something behind? Something that could help us?”

I let out a breath. “If she did, it’d be in the attic. She kept most of the old family things up there—boxes of letters, records, even a few trunks that belonged to her mother and grandmother. She never let us toss anything.”

“Then that’s where we start,” Willow said, resolute. “We go up there and look. Today.”

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “You always this bossy in the morning?”

Her brow arched. “Only when I’m trying to undo generations of grief and misfortune.”

“Fair enough.” I leaned forward, brushing a kiss over her shoulder. “We’ll go up after breakfast. I’ll make you some eggs first.”

“Deal,” she whispered.

We stayed close for another minute, her forehead against mine, the weight of the story still between us but not heavy in the way it used to be.

It felt…possible.

Possible that Hazel had left us a path forward—that the curse wasn’t as invincible as it once seemed. Possible that whatever had bound our family in grief might finally be loosening.

Willow pulled back just enough to study my face. “You really think we can break it?”

I pulled her hand up to rest on my chest, to let her feel the steady thrum of my heartbeat.

“I think something broke the moment I saw you sittin’ in my driveway,” I said. “And I think maybe that’s the start of something better.”

She smiled then.