Free Scarlet Butterfly by Sandra Chastain

good night. And thank you for everything. I don’t want to be a burden to you. I like you—even if you are a lawyer.”
    “Carolina?” His voice stopped her at the cabin door. “What did you study in school?”
    “Art. I wanted to paint all the beautiful things in the world. Then I found out the world wasn’t so beautiful.”
    “I should have known.”
    “And, Rogan, I think you ought to know that the first Carolina was an artist too. I realize this will sound unimportant to you, but Jacob didn’t want her on board either.”
    “That’s the trouble, Carolina,” he said, just under his breath. “I think I do.”
    •   •   •
    The next morning the dock and the bank beyond were exposed by the receding water. After breakfast, Rogan offered to drive Carolina into town. He seemed preoccupied and cross. Of course she had to go; she’d never called her father. But she didn’t want to leave. As if in agreement with her, the soggy ground sucked at her sandals as she walked along behind Rogan.
    “We’ll stop at Ida’s and have a real breakfast,” Rogan said. “Then you can pick up something more practical to wear.”
    “Clothes?” Carolina started.
    “You’ll need a swimsuit, some shorts, and maybe a bright-colored dress, for a special occasion.”
    “A special occasion?”
    “Well, you never know what fate might have arranged for you, Goldilocks.”
    It wasn’t what fate had arranged that interested her so much as what Rogan was arranging.
    The marsh was alive with sound. Birds and insects were in constant movement through the grasses and tree limbs. Here and there, caught in the brush, were the ugly signs of civilization; paper cups, soft-drink cans, and wrappers. Those within reaching distance Rogan retrieved. He’d brought along a plastic bag for that purpose.
    “The trappings of civilization,” Carolina commented. “I think I like the jungle better. Natural, without refinement.”
    “Sure, I can tell you’d enjoy living out here without hot water, without restaurants, without a cook.”
    “Please don’t remind me of those eggs,” she said brightly. “But I really love it.” She did. There was something so free and easy about the boat and theriver, though she couldn’t expect him to believe she felt this way. “Oh, there’s a path. Where does it go?” “To the house.”
    “There’s a real house out here?”
    “What’s left of it. Old Jacob must have gotten tired of living on board at some time, or maybe it was his descendants. At any rate, one of the Rogans built a very grand house overlooking the water.”
    “Can I see it?”
    “Not now. It’s falling down,” he snapped, pressing on down the road. “Besides, we need to get into town.”
    “Oh, I see.” He didn’t want to share the house with her, even for a moment. She didn’t understand, but she could accept that. So far she’d inserted herself into his life freely, with little regard for his privacy. She’d done more than she’d ever expected to do when she left Texas. She’d found the
Scarlet Butterfly.
And she’d found her Rogan.
    My Rogan.
There was a nice sound to the words. She hurried to catch up with him. This morning he was wearing crisp khaki trousers and a blue shirt with only a few wrinkles. On his feet were a pair of scruffy running shoes. Once again his hair was pulled neatly back and caught with a rubber band.
    With a little imagination she could see him in a captain’s navy pea coat, dark-colored trousers, and shoes. He’d be wearing a beard, or possibly just a mustache. He would have—in another life. And her? She couldn’t quite get a picture of what she might be wearing; then she realized with a start that it might be because she wasn’t there at all.
    “There. You can see the problem.” His voice broke through her thoughts. She struggled to focus onwhat he was saying, then caught sight of the red car. It was resting at a crazy angle against a tree in a swampy area about ten feet off