Page 25

He studied the page. “Tell me.”

So I did.

I told him about the narrow petals and blue stamens, the shallow roots, and the contradictory names in Grandma’s notes. Her references to cold water and limestone.

Then I reached the part I’d avoided telling anyone in Screaming Woods. “Grandma was sick. She had tremors at first, then muscle weakness. It progressed slowly, and nobody ever gave us a diagnosis that explained all of it.” I paused. “She died last year.”

Barrett turned his head toward me. “I’m sorry, Hazel.”

His voice was so gentle I had to look away.

“She believed this plant could help people with illnesses like hers. Not cure them—she never claimed that—but she thought it could slow the progression.” I traced one of Grandma’s pencil marks. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here. She left pieces of the story everywhere, and I keep thinking if I can put them together…”

Barrett waited.

I took a breath. “It won’t bring her back.”

“No.”

There was no false comfort in his answer. I was grateful for that.

“The grant is for a botanical survey because that’s what I could prove was here. I couldn’t exactly ask a funding board for money to search for a magical medicinal plant based on my grandmother’s journal. Heck, I’m not sure I believe it myself,” I said wryly. “But if my grandmother was right, maybe someone else gets more time. And I want that. I want something good to come from all the years she was sick. I want this thing she cared about to matter.”

My voice wavered on the last word.

Barrett’s hand covered mine, his palm swallowing it completely.

I stared at our fingers. “You don’t have to⁠—”

“I know.”

Barrett’s thumb moved across my knuckles, and he inhaled as I turned my hand beneath his until our palms met.

I had no idea who this version of me was—the woman sitting pressed against a man-bear in the middle of town with her grandmother’s journal open in front of her, desperately wanting to move closer.

I’d always known what came next: study, work, publish, apply for the next grant. I had procedures for everything.

I had no procedure for Barrett.

I lifted my eyes to his, and his gaze dropped to my mouth. This time, I didn’t pretend not to notice. Heat pooled low in my belly. If he kissed me, I would let him. I wanted him to.

Barrett’s eyes lifted to mine, and for a second, I thought he might.

Then his gaze dropped to the journal. “The map.”

I blinked. “What?”

He cleared his throat. “You said she made a map.”

“Oh.” Right. Plants. Science. Things I understood.

I withdrew my hand slowly and turned the pages until Grandma’s map spread across both sides of the journal.

Barrett’s attention sharpened immediately. “This trail.”

“You know it?”

He traced the old path without touching the paper. “Used to.”