When the Black Roses Grow by Angela Christina Archer Page B

there when I tossed the blanket over there for washing.”
    James strode over to the blanket and lifted it off the vine.
    No, please. Lord, no.
    With his arms folded across his chest, he studied it without uttering a single word. Calmness whispered in through his shoulders as a smirk skewed his lips. His motionless silence clawed at my anxiety. Would he know it for what it was—black magic? Would he head straight to the courthouse to inform Sheriff Corwin of what he saw?
    Gather the villagers! We hath another witch to hunt.
    I closed my eyes to steady my erratic breath. I should not hath allowed him inside my home. I should hath sent him away, far away where the impudent vine could not cause turmoil. The damage now done, from the one choice I should not hath made.
    “I can remove it for you.” James gestured the movements with his hands as he finally spoke.
    “No, ‘tis not necessary, really, ‘tis not.” My voice cracked with my words as I rose from the chair. “I will ask Jeb to remove it in the morning. I believe he will hath to unfasten the board to dig up the root.”
    “Are you certain? ‘Tis not a problem.”
    “Yes, yes, I am certain.” With my nerve about to break, I began to pace.
    “If such is thy choice.” He shrugged his shoulders. “’Tis quite an interesting vine. I do not believe I hath seen another like it.”
    “I do not . . . believe I hath . . . seen one like it, either,” I laughed hoping to mask my panic. “But, I am hardly knowledgeable on the subject.”
    Suddenly, the fire behind us hissed. Stew boiled over the top of the pot, sizzling as the liquid dripped down upon the burning wood and hot embers. James hurried to fetch a spoon and stirred the thick broth, forgetting about the confusing vine, or at least acting as though he did.
    “I believe supper is finished.”
    I fetched two bowels from the cabinet and handed them to him. They clanked together in my trembling hand as his fingers wrapped around the edges.
    “Are you cold?”
    “I suppose I am, a little,” I lied.
    “I will throw another log upon the fire.” He ladled a few heaping scoops of stew into both of the bowels before handing them both to me. “Do you hath any bread rolls?”
    “Actually, I placed several in oven box before preparing my soup. I completely forgot about them, but they should be done. They might hath burned by now.”
    I stepped forward, but James blocked my advance.
    “No, I will fetch them. Just sit down and enjoy the stew.” The nudge in his voice mirrored the smile on his face as he plucked the rolls from the oven box. “I am afraid the rolls are quite brown, however, I think they are good.”
    As he set the rolls upon the table, his fingers brushed against my arm with an ever-so-slight touch that whispered across my skin. I caught my breath. Every muscle stiffened with a bolt of shock that shuddered through my body.
    He sat in the chair next to me, and within seconds, began shoving chunks of bread into his mouth, nodding as though he enjoyed the taste. “Slightly burned, but they are edible.”
    The hardened crust crunched and crumbled as he tore off a few pieces then tossed them into the bowl of stew. Each piece melted in the heat, softening as they soaked up the broth.
    He plucked the spoon from the table and blew on the scoop of hot stew. “And, now for the delicious part of the meal.” With a chuckle and another smirk, he winked.
    Stoutness mirrored through his movements, and yet, a hinted softness dwelled deep inside. An old soul, more known than once believed, the sense he was a stranger played a far distant memory, and a deepened calmness overwhelmed me as I sat in the chair, motionless.
    “Are you not hungry?”
    “Yes, I am.” I whispered.
    He nodded toward the bowl and spoon. “Why are you not eating?”
    I smiled and shook my head, unable to think of a word to say.
    “Did thy husband not cook for you?”
    I laughed, then slapped my hand over my mouth to drown out the