As a child, Bobbie Lee found refuge from her lonely life at her best friend's house. Rockhaven was a place of magic, colored by the butterflies that Cincy Jaines's mother, Lenora, studied. Her friendship with Cincy and Lenora soon became Bobbie's compass. But the tangled intimacies between them began to unravel, and in one night, Rockhaven became a place of unspeakable tragedy. Now, a decade later, the long shadows of that night continue to haunt Bobbie, despite her attempts to hide from the past. When a stranger with ties to Lenora and Cincy arrives at her doorstep, she is forced to confront the memories she has tried to avoid, and the dark secret at the heart of the tragedy slowly emerges. "Marcia Preston tackles tough topics with elegance and empathy. The Butterfly House is a beautifully written, gripping novel." -- bestselling author Bonnie Hearn Hill "Marcia Preston writes with a skill and knowledge of her craft that creates a melody of words." -- New York Times bestselling author Jodi Thomas Marcia Preston grew up on a wheat farm in central Oklahoma, and her first two books were mysteries in an Oklahoma setting. She was awarded the 2004 Mary Higgins Clark Award for suspense fiction, and the 2004 Oklahoma Book Award. Her most recent books are general fiction. Before writing novels full time, Marcia taught high school English and was a freelance writer for a long list of national magazines. She also published and edited a specialty magazine for writers. The Butterfly House By Marcia Preston MIRA Copyright © 2006 Marcia Preston All right reserved. ISBN: 0778322173 Alberta, Canada, March 1990 From the window of my husband's house, I see the stranger stop beside our gate at the bottom of the snow-covered hill. He steps from his black Chevy Blazer, leaving the door open, and peers at the name on our mailbox.His down jacket hangs unzipped despite the cold overcast of the morning,and he's wearing cowboy boots. Even from this distance I am struck by the contrast of his black hair against the snow. "You have the wrong house," I whisper, hoping he'll turn around and go back the way he came. Instead he gets back in the car and drives slowly up the slope. Damn. I switch off the single lamp on the sunporch and lay aside the pillowtop I'm embroidering, a gift for someone I love. This one is a yellow-and-black anise swallowtail, scientifically correct. A dozen other pairs of silent wings lie stacked on a closet shelf — my butterfly collection, David calls it. Each time he says the words I feel the wings inside my chest. He has no idea. From the cool shadows of the house, I watch the stranger park his car and walk up the snow-packed sidewalk to the front door. He is surefooted and somber. I guess him to be about fifty, nearly twice my age, and for some reason this makes me even more uneasy. I stand motionless, holding my breath as he rings the bell and waits. Go away. It's the wrong house. He rings again. He doesn't look like a robber or rapist, but I'm too tired to open the door and pretend to be amiable while I give him directions to whatever he's seeking. I need my solitude, especially today. I realize I'm pressing one palm flat against my abdomen and jerk the hand away, clenching my fist. My breathing clots in my chest. The bell chimes again, and I jump when the doorjamb rattles under his knock. Go away, for heaven's sake! Nobody's home.Whoever you're looking for isn't here. And then the stranger calls my name. Not Roberta Dutreau, my married name, but my childhood name. "Roberta Lee? Bobbie?" His voice sounds deep and somehow muffled. "I saw your light. Please open the door." My heart pounds. I don't know this man; how does he know me? David is at work — I don't know what to do. "Please," he calls out. "It's about Lenora." My breath sucks in. I hurry to the door and jerk it open, sending small tufts of snow onto the hallway floor. No one ever uses this door. The stranger stands bareheaded, his weight on one leg with both knees bowing outward like a cowboy's. But he isn't a cowboy. He's Indian. His dark eyes meet mine and there's something familiar there — something I cannot name. He's stocky and muscular, a full head taller than I am. I haven't spoken aloud all morning and my voice sounds hoarse. "Is something wrong with Lenora?" The stranger keeps one hand in his jacket pocket and the other hooked by the thumb through the belt loop of his jeans. When he finally speaks, his bass voice is flat and expressionless. "You mean besides ten years of prison life?" I grip the edge of the door with both hands. "Who are you?" He meets my eyes again. "I'm Harley Jaines." The name echoes in my head, bounces through the empty rooms. Harley Jaines Harley Jaines Harley Jaines... "You bastard ." I grip the door tighter. "Harley Jaines is dead." "Sorry to contradict you, but I'm not." A muscle in his jaw twitches. I remember a photograph from years ago, a young man in uniform with the same blac