Scarlet Butterfly

Sean Rogan had become a man of few words, damned few words.

Particularly where his family was concerned. In fact, he hadn’t spoken a word of any kind to another Rogan in more than two years—not since he’d dissolved the family corporation, divided up its assets, and accepted the decaying family home on the St. Marys River as his part of the Rogan real estate. He couldn’t speak to them; the pain and disappointment had been too great.

Then an article about his resurrection of the
Scarlet Butterfly
had appeared in the
Savannah Journal
, the daily newspaper of which his brother David was editor, and he had been forced to face his family again.

Sean had successfully avoided the press and the bickering of the various factions within the family for two peaceful years, until David had broken his agreement to protect Sean’s privacy by printing the
story about the schooner he’d raised and restored. Now Sean found himself in the spotlight again, in the center of a controversy over ownership of the vessel. He’d be forced to do the thing he wanted most to avoid—defend himself in a court of law.

Sean Rogan had had enough of conflict and the threat of legal battles to last a lifetime.

It didn’t matter that the story of the 1850’s schooner would sooner or later have been published by some other newspaper. It didn’t matter that his editor brother had spent a good part of the afternoon trying to explain that he’d decided if his paper covered the story, he could protect Sean, and maybe Beth, from more publicity. Sean wished he believed him, but trust was a thing of the past. David had wanted to be the first to break the story, and he’d done it, at Sean’s expense.

His sister was dead because of that kind of thinking, because they’d all been too self-centered to see what they were doing to the youngest Rogan. The family might not have been aware of what their bickering was doing to Beth, but Sean should have been. His father had left the family in his care.

Now it was about to happen again. But the
Scarlet Butterfly
was his and nobody would take it away from him, no matter what the state antiquities law said. Sean had turned his back on his former life, sworn never to go to court again, for any reason. But now he’d have to.

Sean glanced into the mirror of his truck and groaned. Though there was a recent scar on the side of his face that made him look more like a pirate than an executive, he’d been forced to take on the mannerisms of the world he’d left behind. The clothes he
wore were expensive, imported, uncomfortable, and hot.

September on the Georgia coast was hot as hell and, as far as Sean was concerned, almost as populated with the devil’s chosen advocates, starting with Ryan, the younger brother who most shared the responsibility of their sister’s death, and David, the older brother who’d drawn Sean back into the public eye. David’s claim that he’d managed to fend off all the outside inquiries about the reclusive Sean Rogan, except those of one woman who claimed to be a descendent of a woman who’d vanished in 1850 on a schooner called the
Scarlet Butterfly
, fell on deaf ears.

A descendant of a woman who’d vanished on the
Scarlet Butterfly
? Sean shook his head and slid his broad shoulders from the jacket of his suit. Fruitcakes were already coming out of the woodwork.

Wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt, he threaded his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, pulled it back, and secured it with a rubber band. He wondered if he might have fared better in his meeting with the state officials if he’d had a haircut.

Sean started the engine and backed the truck into the street outside the courthouse. He left Savannah behind and drove down the coast toward the sleepy little town of St. Marys, back toward the river that shared its name, toward peace and tranquillity, toward the welcoming silence that came from being utterly alone in an inaccessible place.

In spite of the oppressive heat, the farther he drove the better he felt. For several days the local weather forecasters had been tracking the third tropical storm
of the season. It was moving in the direction of the Southern coast, but its destination had not yet been pinpointed. He glanced at the sky. Sunshine was already giving way to clouds riding in from the Caribbean. No matter; he’d be home long before dark.

As he turned off the intercoastal waterway, his truck was quickly swallowed up by the thick underbrush and marshy land that bordered the road. A number of people—farmers, river people, some of them very wealthy—once lived along the St. Marys. But the pull of the city and the hardships of the area had lured them away. Gradually Sean had bought up the land until he was blessedly alone. No more corporate decisions. No more threats of takeovers and buy-outs. No more courtroom drama or family disputes to settle. Just Sean Rogan, reclusive millionaire, retired corporate CEO, renegade runaway. He’d run from the famous Southern family corporation that had once controlled several newspapers, television stations, resorts, and a pecan business that for the last century was the basis of wealth for the Rogans, this clan that rivaled the Kennedys for airing their public sins before the world.

Alone.

At least he thought he was, until he came to the red compact rental car, abandoned in the middle of his road, blocking his way.

Carolina Evans drew in a big breath of pungent salt air and glanced dolefully around at the sharp, spiked-leaf plants and thick underbrush beside the road. When she’d left the bustling seaport city of
Savannah, Georgia to find the mysterious recluse living on the river, she hadn’t known what to expect.

From the moment she’d seen the story about the millionaire who’d discovered the 1850’s schooner called the
Scarlet Butterfly
in a river near the coast of Georgia, she’d become obsessed. She’d read about that ship in an old journal in her father’s library, read about it and the great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother who’d run away on it. Seeing the
Butterfly
for herself became the dream that had gotten Carolina through the months of the radiation therapy that had made her hair fall out and her body so tired she could hardly move.

For so long her gains had been measured in hours, then days, and finally weeks. By then the tumor was gone, but so was her strength. Just getting to the river was as far as she’d allowed herself to think. She still couldn’t believe that she’d actually come.

Her father now knew that she was gone, she realized. He’d cover his hurt with anger, then come after her. She wondered how long it would take him. She was sorry she hadn’t said good-bye, but she hadn’t been sure she had the courage to go through with her plan. Having the most powerful attorney in the state of Texas for a father was both a blessing and a weight to carry. He’d been able to afford her medical care, but he refused to discuss the possibility that she was ready to start her life again—alone.

And she was determined to build a new life, her own life. She’d loaded up her supply of medication, flown from Houston to Atlanta, changed planes to reach Savannah, and rented a car. After an unsatisfactory conversation with the editor of the newspaper that had printed the story, she’d driven to St.
Marys and spent the night at Ridgeway Inn, the bed and breakfast that dated back to the Revolutionary War.

After several conversations about her mission, the innkeeper, Ida, had finally told her where to find the man who’d brought the ship to the surface. Confidently, Carolina had set out to see the vessel. That’s all she had in mind. Then she’d call her father and let him know that she’d arrived and that she was all right.

She hadn’t expected to get lost.

But the asphalt road had changed into a black dirt road that had gradually narrowed. Now trees with huge limbs, laced overhead like fingers, closed out the last of the early-evening light and dangled long tassels of gray moss over the rental car. There had been no place to turn around. The ground fell away from the road into what smelled and looked, in the fading light, like a saltwater marsh.

The car had sputtered and died, leaving her stranded in a green swamp that seemed to breathe like a live thing ready to devour her if she stepped off the road. It was getting late. She considered her situation. There had been no houses for miles. Still, overhead she could see a power line. Power lines took electricity somewhere.

Carolina had been determined, but now she was very tired, and she wondered if her doctor and her friends had been right when they’d pleaded with her not to leave her father’s house. They’d warned her that she wasn’t ready to be on her own yet.

“No,” she whispered, shoring up her waning strength. They were wrong. She wasn’t strong yet, but the doctors had fixed her body. Now she had to
mend her psyche. She’d been so tired for so long without knowing why. When her problem had finally been diagnosed as a cyst at the base of her pituitary gland, they’d operated. The growth hadn’t been malignant, but she had required radiation therapy, followed by months of medication adjustment and careful monitoring in the hospital, before being transferred home and to her father’s care.

Angus Evans, who had always been overprotective, had become a warden, and she’d felt as if she were slowly being smothered. Finally one morning she’d decided that she had to get away. She’d promised herself that she was going to see the
Scarlet Butterfly
, and the time had come to go.

“I’d rather you didn’t leave,” her doctor had argued when she’d confided her plans. “But I understand. As long as you take your medication I expect you’ll do fine. Just don’t overexert yourself.”

“Why on earth would you leave a place where you have servants and an unlimited allowance?” her best friend had asked when Carolina had confided that she was considering moving out.

She hadn’t told her father. He would have said that he knew what was best for her. And he’d promise that someday, when they were sure …

That someday, she knew, would never come. But he’d expect her to agree with his plan anyway, because she always had—except once, when she’d been determined to go away to college. In the end, he’d been right about that too.

It had been early in her illness that Carolina had found the journal among her mother’s books in the library. From the moment she’d read it and discovered that the woman writing was also named Carolina,
she’d been fascinated by the ancestor who’d run away from her powerful Boston family with a sea captain. Angus Evans had shrugged off her questions, saying he didn’t know where the journal had come from, nor did he care. Yes, Carolina carried the same name, but it was simply a coincidence, he’d insisted.