Page 44 of Where the Roses Bloom

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s go find the rest of it.”

CHAPTER 15

Willow

The attic stairscreaked beneath our feet, each step sounding louder in the stillness. Rhett walked ahead of me, his hand loose in mine, the other resting lightly on the railing. In my free hand, I held a bundle of herbs—lavender, rosemary, and sage—tied together with a scrap of twine.

He glanced back at me, a teasing glint in his eye. “You really bringing a spell satchel up to the attic?”

“It’s not a spell satchel,” I said, lifting it. “It’s for cleansing.”

“Grandma Hazel would’ve called that nonsense.”

“Pretty sure Hazel was a witch,” I told him. “She used to bury dimes in the garden for luck.”

Rhett cocked an eyebrow. “She tell you that herself?”

“No,” I said. “I just guessed…you know, from finding all those dimes buried out in the garden.”

That earned a quiet huff of laughter. “…Fair.”

The attic was warmer than the rest of the house, the sun warming it through a single window at the other side of the room, dust particles floating in a shaft of bright light. We stood at the top of the stairs, letting our eyes adjust.

“It’s not as cluttered as I thought,” I murmured.

“She kept it neat,” Rhett said. “Had a lot of things to store, all of them precious. She didn’t want it getting messy up here…Grandma never liked a mess.”

Old trunks lined the walls, each labeled in fading script. A dress form leaned in the corner, draped in what might’ve once been a wedding veil. Crates were stacked under the eaves, and a rocking chair sat just out of the sunlight’s reach. Every object felt touched by memory.

I knelt by one of the trunks, opening it up to find that it was full of absolutely gorgeous quilts. I reached out, brushing my hand to touch one. “She made these?”

“Most of ’em. Some were her mama’s…and some were mine.”

I glanced at him. “Your mom was a quilter?”

“All the women in the family were,” Rhett said, crossing his arms. “Mama always lamented not having a girl…wanted to teach her how to sew, knit, the works.”

“Well, she could have taught you boys.”

A smile ghosted over Rhett’s face. “Yeah…which is why I’m so good with a sewing machine.”

I regarded him for a second, not sure if he was joking.

“Wait—are you?”

He grinned, shrugging one shoulder. “Hazel taught me the basics. Patchin’ jeans, hemmin’ curtains, makin’ throw pillows. Domestic as hell.”

“That’s actually kind of hot,” I said, running my fingers over the hand-stitched star pattern blooming across the quilt.

“Oh yeah?” he drawled. “Should I start offerin’ mending services around town? ‘Rhett Ward: sewing and seduction.’”

I snorted. “You’d have a waitlist.”

He was still smiling when I closed the trunk and moved toward the rocking chair. There was something about this place…not haunted, exactly, but alive. Like the attic itself had a pulse. I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in—the shadows, the slants of light, the smell of cedar and rose.

Wait.

I stopped.