The Butterfly Code (9 page)

"
P
illow’s for you
," Hunter tells me, setting everything down on a bench in the hall.

"I won’t be needing it," I say quickly.

He gives me that now-familiar quirk of his mouth, and his eyes are smiling, and I wonder if he’s laughing at me. "Suit yourself. Here, give me a hand with this basket. You must be starving. I know I am."

"I am, too," I say, glad of a subject change.

I get busy pulling a workbench over for a table and laying out the food. Hunter pushes a pair of hay bales against the wall and drapes them with a blanket, forming one long, makeshift padded seat.

"After you," he says.

I sit and he settles in beside me, tugging the workbench close. His thigh almost touches my leg. Even with the tension still between us, it’s somehow more intimate than any moment I ever shared with Trey. Hunter’s arm presses against mine, marble-hard and sculpted and way too sexy, and I quickly pull away.

"It all looks delicious," I say, flustered.

"Thank Edward." Hunter gazes over it all, one brow rising. "He sure went for broke."

There’s hot roast chicken and a loaf of crusty bread with cold butter. A hearty salad with tomatoes, cucumber, and feta. A large wedge of cheddar cheese. Half a peach pie. Several bottles of mineral water. A tall thermos of piping-hot cider, and a second one of coffee, along with a quarter pint of cream. Thinking back to Foggy Joe’s, I wonder if the coffee is for me.

I pour us both cups of water.

He sets out plates.

Neither of us speaks. Maybe we have nothing to talk about.

"Look," he says. "Since we’re stuck here, let’s try to leave our differences behind for a while. What do you think?"

I nod. "Okay."

As we start eating, there’s a slow loosening of tension. The conversation starts and stops, and starts again.

He’s buttering a thick slab of bread when he glances at me. "So tell me something. That night on the road. Did you really enjoy that Mozart piece?"

I stop piling salad onto my plate and look at him. "Yeah, actually. I did."

"I thought no one under thirty—well, hardly anyone—likes classical music."

"You don’t exactly seem the type yourself."

He laughs. "Really? I’m not sure how I should take that. What type do I seem like?"

Now it’s my turn to laugh. "I don’t know. That was uncalled for."

"Maybe not."

"Wait, I’m right?"

"I didn’t say that," he says. "Only that you’re entitled to your opinion. Truth is, when I was a kid, my dad thought attending performances was prestigious. I associated classical music with tight-fitting, uncomfortable dress-up clothes, being forced to sit still in a dark theater while my father snored next to me in his seat."

I grin at this image of Hunter as a boy. "What about your mother? Did she enjoy it?"

"She did. She used to tell me if I listened closely I’d hear the world’s soul."

Wow. I like this woman.

"So if you don't like classical music, why were you playing Mozart in your car?" I say.

"I guess I changed my mind." He finishes slathering his heel of bread with butter and offers it to me. I shake my head.

"Best piece, the crust."

I pause, my mug halfway to my mouth, and say. "Wait, that’s my line."

"Well, at least we have one thing in common." He waves it in front of me again. "Go on, you know you want it."

"Um—" I can’t help laughing. "Okay. Thanks."

Our fingers brush and I meet his eyes. There’s a lightness there, an opening. If I’m not careful, I could tumble into that bright gaze and never want to leave.

He leans one elbow on the bench, angling toward me and resting his chin in his hand. "So how did you know that was Mozart? Or was it a lucky guess?"

I tear off a bite, and my mouth tips into a little grin. After swallowing, I say, "I’m going to be first violinist in the New York Philharmonic come fall."

"You’re kidding." His hand claps down on the bench. "Seriously?"

I nod.

"How? Where did you study? I’m really impressed."

And so I’m answering his questions, telling him about learning the violin, and about my secret dream of composing, and even about my relationship with Trey and how he wanted me to move to the Midwest and turn down the symphony’s offer.

"He sounds like a self-centered idiot. I can’t believe you gave him the time of day."

"He wasn’t
that
bad."

"I, for one, am glad Troy Sheila went back to where he belongs."

"Shields. Trey Shields."

"Whatever. Good riddance."

I’m not sure why this is so funny, but it is. His face glows with devilish amusement. I’m still grinning as we pack up the picnic basket together.

"I like your smile, Aeris Thorne," he tells me. "It sure lights up this big old barn."

I swear I better be careful because I’m in serious danger of falling for this man.

W
e go
and attend to Blaze, who glances up all wide-eyed, tugging at my heartstrings. It’s getting easier to feed her, or so I think, until she shoots out one hoof and catches Hunter in the shin.

He curses loudly. I drop the bottle.

"Are you all right?"

He rubs his leg, wincing. "Yep. My fault. Carry on."

For an instant, I get this ridiculous vision of us as parents muddling our way through our baby’s first night home and almost laugh out loud. Hunter’s bent, tousled head rises to question my silence. He catches my grin and smiles back, making my heart stutter. In this moment it’s like we’ve been together in this barn, in our solitary world, for a small eternity.

I don’t know when the shift happened, yet where there was unease before there’s now an electrical current of anticipation under everything we do and say. A breathless beauty to the world, like we’re shooting stars racing across the night sky on an impending collision course.

"How did you get into horses?" I ask.

"My mentor. I was studying in Europe. He was a horse fanatic. I caught the bug from him."

"So you rode a lot there?"

"If you want the truth, I was blustering that horses can’t be hard to ride so he invited me on an expedition. Two months on horseback in the Mongolian steppes with a bow over one shoulder and arrows on our backs and no idea where our next meals were coming from. I was bruised from one end to the other—and that includes my ego, before I finally got the hang of it."

"Two months!"

"It puts either the love or hate of horses in your blood. In my case, love won out."

"That sounds amazing. I’d give anything to do a trip like that."

"You would?" His rugged face is the picture of amazement.

"Yes, are you kidding? Who gets to do that? Ride away on horseback for two whole months?"

His brows go up a notch. "I’ll hold you to it, if I ever do it again."

His words reverberate through me and I can barely breathe. Is he toying with me? Then I swallow and match his dare with a smug grin. "I’ll be there."

With a laugh, he shakes his head and strokes Blaze’s ears.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Is it because I’m a woman? You think I couldn’t handle?"

"No. Maybe."

"Well, you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?"

"I’m looking forward to it. Very much, actually," he says.

I follow him out of the stall. The air is chilly as we sit together again. He fetches a candle from the basket and lights it, setting it nearby. I pull my knees up, drawn to his warmth.

"What’s it like out there, really?"

"Vast. A million stars at night. Sparks rising from the fire. Horses chirring. You’re this tiny life-form out in the middle of the plains and the rest of the world disappears."

I can almost see the firelight flickering on his tanned features, the tiny circle of our campground glowing in the darkness. I’m struck by a pang of longing. Of course it’s only a dream. Or maybe hopeful thinking. After tonight, who knows what will happen. I have the Philharmonic and he has his work. Yet for now, I savor it as though it could be real.

Spurred on by our easy intimacy, I hear myself say, "I have a confession to make."

"Oh?"

I have his full attention now.

"I don’t actually travel much."

"Why not?"

"I have this habit of putting my music first."

"Then you’ll have to bring along your violin. Anything else I should know?"

I laugh. "Okay, maybe there’s a reason Mongolia appeals to me—I’m weird about crowds."

"As in?"

"Honestly? Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead someplace like the Zenith Club. They terrify me."

"I don’t like crowds much, either."

"And there’s another reason why your trip appeals to me." Before I can stop myself, I blurt, "I love riding, in fact, I’ve always, desperately, wanted my own horse."

Did I just admit that?

He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say something he doesn’t mean, like that we can share Blaze, or that he’ll let me come and ride her, I quickly say, "What about you? Is there anything I should know about you?"

He assesses me long and hard, and I’m sure he’s about to say he doesn’t want me prying.

"I’m obsessed with my work, too," he admits.

"Really? I like that."

He gives me a half grin. "And you’re not the only one who avoids bars. The night we met is the only time I’ve ever entered a club without being dragged in."

I laugh. There’s heat in his eyes, and it radiates down my middle, all the way to my toes. I’m madly aware of the heat of his thigh against mine. He lifts his rough fingers to my cheek. I practically melt forward.

"Crumbs," he says, and brushes them away.

His hand is trembling ever so slightly. My heart is slamming in my throat. His own pulse beats visibly along his jaw, which is dark with stubble. My eyes move to his mouth, and I think he’s about to kiss me.

At that moment, Blaze’s cries come to us.

We both stand quickly, nearly upsetting the table.

E
vening
passes into night and deepens toward dawn. At four thirty I allow myself to lie down for a moment on the hay bales. I wake in inky darkness to find thick blankets draped over me. The barn creaks as it settles in the coolness. There are gentle rustlings in the distance, the sounds of Ranger shifting in his stall.

Out of nowhere, I recall the fact that I was supposed to stay home to accept Dad's package. I groan, softly. I hope Mr. Creedy took it. And thinking of Mr. Creedy, he must be wondering where I am. Did he call Dad? I'm going to have some serious explaining to do.

I peer into the shadows, trying to make out Hunter’s form. I sense him sitting just out of reach. His breathing is barely audible. He’s clearly awake.

An ache fills my chest. Had he been about to kiss me? Or had I read him wrong? Because he hadn’t come close to trying again. If anything, he’s been preoccupied and distant.

Maybe he’s thinking about Dad again.

Maybe I need to get a grip while it’s still possible to stop from tumbling head over heels. I have a goal—no boyfriend until I reach it. That is my rule. It’s a good rule. Really. Truly. I’m glad he didn’t kiss me.

Well, maybe
glad
’s not exactly the right word.

W
e feed Blaze
, and then I return to my resting spot and curl up alone.

Early light filters through my closed lids. I jolt upright at the sound of hooves. Hunter is leading Ranger down the long row between the stalls. There’s a horse blanket slung over the stallion’s back.

"Going somewhere?" I ask.

"Good. You’re awake. I thought we could take a ride."

"We?"

He pats Ranger’s thick shoulders. "This guy needs some exercise, and I want to show you where I’m going to bury Poppy. If you’re interested."

"You mean—you and me, ride Ranger . . . together?"

"You’re small and he’s a big guy. I don’t think he’ll mind."

I’m not exactly thinking of Ranger’s discomfort—although I should be—but more of my own at being so close to Hunter. Apparently that’s the last thing on his mind.

"It’ll be faster than walking," he tells me, "and I don’t like to leave Blaze too long. It will be time to feed her in another half hour."

As we hurry out the barn door, I run to keep pace with his stride. Yesterday’s rainclouds, which had loomed on the horizon, have marched closer. They charge overhead, shadowing the landscape in shades of gray. Across the open fields, misty light slants beneath the rapidly moving cumulus. The strong lines of Hunter’s face are silhouetted against the stormy sky.

He eyes the distant treetops that sway in the rising wind. "We don’t have much time."

A warning drop spatters on my face.

"Are you up for it?" he asks.

"Of course. Let’s go."

Hunter mounts easily and then practically scoops me up with one arm and seats me in front of him.

"Comfortable?" he murmurs in my ear.

I gulp. "Yes, fine!" I squeak.

In one swift movement, Hunter pulls me tight against him, grabs Ranger’s mane with his free hand, and urges the horse into action. Ranger doesn’t need much prodding. We’re off like a shot, thundering across open ground. Hunter’s muscular thighs grip my own. They hold me in place with their steady strength and pressure. And even though we’re fully clothed, it’s primal, carnal almost, to feel my backside rubbing up against him. I dig my hands into Ranger’s mane next to his and try not to think too hard about it.

I force myself to concentrate on what a skilled horseman he is. Hunter doesn’t jostle. Instead, he matches my rhythm. It’s like we were born for this, to canter together at headlong speed.

Soon, we’re following the cliff’s edge. Wind gusts off the churning ocean.

My eyes drift farther, down to the beach far, far below.

I start in surprise, jerking upright against Hunter’s broad chest.

It’s Gage’s beach. There’s the ring of cabins. A dark-haired guy steps out a door. One of Gage’s tenant buddies. He’s carrying a big black box that’s trailing something. Wires, maybe.