Read Online Bees in the Butterfly Garden by Maureen Lang - Free Book Online

own life—of his father and how he’d have wanted Ian to do the same had he still been alive.
    But it didn’t matter. John hadn’t been allowed the time to prove his good intentions, and all that was left was evidence of the kind of man he’d always been. The kind not good enough to be a lady’s father.
    The kind of man Ian was too.
    “It’s out of the question,” he said. “I won’t have it.”
    “ You won’t! Who do you think you are, anyway? Have you assigned yourself John’s role before he’s even buried?”
    Ian put his face directly before Kate’s, reveling in the moment when doubt took the place of her anger. “It’s me or Brewster. And you don’t want him telling everyone what to do, do you?”
    Her eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened, the intimidation he’d stirred a moment ago quickly fading. “He won’t be telling me what to do, nor will you. John was hanging up the Skipjack name; you know it as well as I do. It was the Skipjack way of life that killed him.”
    “A way of life you were happy enough to live for more years than I have.”
    “To my everlasting regret, yes. And to John’s, too. He was going straight, Ian. You can’t deny it.”
    “Going, perhaps, but never gone.”
    Kate’s face softened, and now it was her turn to lean forward. “It can’t possibly do any harm for her to know. She already thinks badly of him. It can only help.”
    “No. She goes back to the school. I’ll see to that myself. Today.”
    Then he turned his back on her, walking from the room with only one destination in mind. As much as he wanted to return to Meggie, he knew he couldn’t ignore much longer those who stood on the porch. Even now, Brewster was no doubt campaigning for the confidence of men Ian couldn’t afford to lose.

    Meg stood over her father’s body, no longer dizzy. For the first time she saw something familiar in him. Most of his face—the odd set to his jaw, the lifeless curve of his brow, the sallow color of his skin—belonged to someone, something, else. But his nose was the same, perfectly centered, neither too large nor too small. It was his, all right. Unchanged.
    “It doesn’t matter what they said about you loving me,” Meg whispered. She’d once convinced herself she’d outgrown her need for a father, but somehow seeing him this way reminded her of what she’d missed, and it pierced her soul.
    It was too late for him to hear what she had to say, but words spilled from an overfilled fountain deep inside. “I wanted so little from you, things you could never give. Never once did you tell me you loved me or that you were proud of me. Did you think the money would say it for you? I’d rather have had the words.”
    She wanted to touch him, his hands that were so peacefully folded across his chest. The single memory she had before living at the school was of him tossing her up into the air, catching her safely in his strong arms with those same hands. Where had that father gone, the one who’d rejoiced in having a daughter? What had she done to make him shut her away?
    She took a step back, still facing him, words she’d wanted to say for years now refusing to be stifled. “I’m finished being that perfect student, that perfect young lady. There’s no hope of pleasing you now, so I might as well do as I please. At last.”
    Meg turned away, shoulders so stiff they ached. Without looking back, she walked from his side, so fast and firm that the heels on her shoes tapped against the floor, no doubt hard enough to nick the wood.
    But she made it no farther than halfway across the room. It was as if her father called to her, using words Maguire and Kate had just spoken. He knew about her studies; he knew about her being Harvest Princess. He’d left the roses.
    “Why?”
    She hadn’t realized she’d nearly screamed the word until it came back to her in an echo.
    Meg fell into one of the nearby chairs, and tears pricked her eyes—tears that made way for the