The Butterfly Code

by Wyshynski, Sue

  He’s fast, and in an instant its face and limbs are clear. But the foal is still lifeless.

  “Here’s a blanket,” I say. “Try rubbing its chest. I’ve seen that done before.”

  “Thanks.” He takes it and scrubs the small ribs. “Come on, little one.”

  “Maybe something’s blocking the airway?”

  “Good idea. Have a look.”

  I crawl around Hunter’s back, open the foal’s mouth, and feel inside with a finger. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

  From behind us, Poppy lets out a gentle chirr. I look at her, and all I see is my Dakota.

  “Hey, it’s okay.” I go to her head and scratch her soft cheek, just the way Dakota liked it. She responds with a low whinny. Her gaze is damp and it’s like the color is fading from her eyes. A wave of fear washes over me. The pit drops out of my stomach. She’s in trouble.

  “Poppy?” I say, putting both hands on her neck and listening to her unsteady inhalations.

  “She’s moving,” Hunter says. “She’s breathing. Aeris?”

  But my focus is on Poppy, on those eyes that have taken on a silent white haze.

  “No,” I whisper. “Don’t go. Please.”

  “What’s happening?” Hunter asks, his concern plain.

  I shake my head.

  “Here, watch the foal,” he tells me.

  I do so, taking hold of the dazed little horse. “Your mother’s tired, that’s all,” I whisper stupidly.

  Hunter presses one ear to Poppy’s heart.

  “No,” he growls.

  My hand goes to my mouth as I share his agony. He maneuvers her long front leg, one that has known fields and jumps and days galloping across pastures, until he’s able to cup his hands over her heart. His back and arms are thick with muscle. Still, strong as he is, I don’t see how he could possibly do chest compressions on her. She’s too big. Yet clearly he’s not ready to let her go.

  I watch him rise to his knees and thrust down into her ribs. Her rumpled coat actually depresses. Deeply. It surges up again. He thrusts a second time and then a third. Over and over, keeping the rhythm of her heart. His strength astounds me. It’s unnatural. It’s inhuman.

  My arms clench around the filly; my eyes are glued to Poppy’s face.

  “You got this,” I tell Hunter.

  He keeps going, jaw gritting, tirelessly fighting.

  I don’t know if it’s ten minutes or thirty minutes or an hour. I hold my breath until it’s painful, as if doing so will help her live.

  Finally, he slows.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you stopping?”

  “It’s no good.” He presses his slick brow to Poppy’s broad, matted neck. “I tried, girl,” he whispers to her.

  “No,” I say, my voice fierce. Angry. Furious. “No! Don’t stop. There’s still a chance.”

  “It’s too late,” he says, his voice muffled.

  “How can you say that? You’re a doctor. What about your research lab? You must have machines. And drugs.”

  “We can’t help her.”

  “You’re just going to give up? What about the filly? She needs her mother!”

  He sits back on his haunches, his arms on his knees, his hands hanging. His closed lips press tighter together. His amber eyes flick to me and then the foal.

  “There is something you can do, isn’t there?”

  He hesitates. Or maybe I only imagine the hesitation.

  “No.” There’s a pause and he shakes his head. Weary. Sad. “No, there isn’t. I lost her.”

  My arms sag around the tiny newborn.

  “Like you said, I should have had a vet here.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  The foal nudges her way toward Poppy, making pathetic, tiny sounds. But her cries go unanswered. They’ll continue to go unanswered. Like mine have since the moment I lost Mom. I watch her press her small body to the big, silent one, knowing it’s the one moment she’ll feel the touch of her mother in this life.

  Against my will, a sob escapes from my mouth. I clap my hand over it.

  “It’s no one’s fault,” I whisper.

  Hunter’s arms come around me. He smells of warmth and safety, of clean skin and vibrant life. I cry into his shirt. He pulls me closer, fitting my forehead to the nook beneath his chin. He strokes a hand through my hair, smoothing it away from my cheek. His chin is hot and sanded with stubble. His pulse beats against my temple, pounding in time to my own.

  “That’s life,” he whispers. I’m not sure if he’s telling me that or himself.

  I nod, my forehead against his hard collarbone.

  “Death is the darkest of thieves,” he says.

  We’re both somber as we cover Poppy with a tartan blanket. There’s not much more we can do in this instant with the newborn in need of immediate attention.

  “We should get the filly to a new stall,” Hunter says.

  “Good idea. I’ll help.”

  “How about you grab some fresh straw while I carry her.”

  “Okay, great.”

  I find a wheelbarrow and load up. My throat’s still raw and my mind’s still there against Hunter’s chest, feeling his shirt against my cheek and his legs pressed to mine. What was I thinking, crying? Why couldn’t I have held it together? Still, the pain of seeing Poppy die wasn’t easy. It’s the last thing I could have predicted when I headed over here to see Hunter.

  And there’s one small joy. The foal is alive.

  I hurry to find them both.

  “Down here, Aeris,” Hunter calls.

  The sound of my name on his tongue makes my ears tingle.

  “Coming!”

  He catches sight of me and my wheelbarrow, and his mouth does this cute half quirk. I must be a complete mess. “There you are. Look.” He indicates a high window with his jaw, still holding the filly in his big arms. “The sun’s coming out.”

  I glance up to see rays bleeding between the clouds.

  “Nice,” I say, and quickly scatter straw across the stone floor so he can put his heavy bundle down.

  Feeling eyes on me, I turn to catch him studying me. His gaze flicks down the curve of my cheek, across the shape of my face. There’s that curiosity I saw before. He reaches out with his hand, and I’m frozen, breathless, until I realize he’s pulling a piece of straw out of my hair. Then he’s walking away, his heavy black work boots disappearing in the hay, and crouching next to the foal. He strokes her head and ears.

  “You doing okay, little one?”

  There’s something so familiar in his actions. In his voice. I can’t help the odd feeling that I know this man. Have we met before? Not in Deep Cove, yet someplace else? When he’d held me, his touch had actually felt recognizable. And his scent, too. He’d smelled of safety and salvation.

  I don’t hug a whole lot of people. And I’d especially remember hugging him.

  He glances over his shoulder at me, and I smile quickly.

  “She’s looking good,” he says.

  “Much better,” I agree.

  Her head bucks a few times, ears wicking backward and forward. Then, as if to prove us right, her stilt-like legs unfold, and she wiggles awkwardly.

  “Oh my gosh, I think she’s trying to stand,” I say.

  “I think you’re right.”

  Hunter jumps back to give her room, and we retreat to the wall. She makes a funny little bleating noise. Her miniature front hooves come forward, and she plants them beneath her.

  “Go, girl,” I say, warmed by the sight as well as the feel of Hunter so close at my elbow.

  Slowly, haltingly, she rises partway. She pauses, bracing herself. Then, with a start, she topples over, glossy and rust-colored and shimmering in the slanting light. The second time is almost a somersault. The third, she practically does the splits. It’s amazing and funny and endearing. This filly is less than thirty minutes old; she’s claiming her life moment by moment.

  We’re both trying not to laugh, but it’s har
d.

  “Almost there. Come on, girl,” Hunter urges.

  This time, she jams her hind legs firmly in place, hooves spread wide in a stubborn survival stance. Her auburn coat burns as if with licks of fire.

  My heart actually leaps into my throat. “Way to go!”

  “Yeah!” Hunter says.

  As if having made her statement, she careens into the straw.

  “She’s going to be one little firecracker.” Hunter props his back against the stall door. “We need to give her a name. Any ideas?”

  “Me?” As it happens, a name had popped into my head. Still, naming her would be a sure way of getting too attached to a horse that isn’t mine. So I just shrug.

  He uncrosses his arms and his irises flicker. “What was that? You holding back?”

  “It might be more of a guy’s name.”

  “Try me.”

  The light catches his hard cheekbones and smile creases next to his mouth, making my stomach do little flips.

  “Uh … Blaze?”

  “Blaze?”

  “I just thought, because of her rusty color, but it’s probably not great.”

  “I don’t know about that. I like it. It suits her.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” He goes and pats the filly on her side, dragging my gaze with him. “What do you think, Blaze? We need to get you something to eat, huh?”

  So Blaze it is. She’s certainly doing a quick job of working her way into my heart. But she doesn’t belong to me, and I don’t belong on the research lab property. Honestly, I need to get a grip. The truth about me sneaking in using Dad’s key is going to come out sooner or later. And given his and Dad’s tense relationship, it’s going to be awkward.

  “I saw feeding bottles in the tack room,” he says. “I was told to get colostrum in case of emergency. Never actually thought I’d have to use it. It’s in the freezer up at the house. You mind staying here with her?”

  “Not at all!” I say, too brightly.

  I guess sooner or later has arrived. Because once he’s outside, he’ll see Dad’s truck. And then it’s going to be explanation time.

  Ten

  Fifteen tense minutes later, I sense someone staring at me. I spin and catch Hunter with his brows knitted. He eases his way into the stall.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Got it.”

  “Great.”

  He says nothing about what he must really be thinking. Instead, he lifts a baby bottle. “I’m not much of a pro when it comes to these things.”

  “Here, let me.” I take the warm bottle. I should just blurt it out. Admit that, yes, I stole Dad’s key. “Maybe you should hold her.”

  “All right.” He braces her between his knees. “So tell me again how you got in?”

  Under his scrutiny, I grow flustered. I was right. It’s awkward. More than awkward. I press the nipple to her mouth. She refuses it at first, struggling away. “Yeah, about that …”

  “I don’t quite recall what you said earlier.”

  I squeeze a little milk onto her lips. She licks at it.

  “Right—well, through the gate.”

  Blaze’s tail starts whisking around as she drinks, whacking Hunter in the back.

  “That I figured. I’m still confused. Did Jack help you get in?”

  “No … look, I … I found your delivery order for today, and Dad’s out of town, and … I thought you’d be needing the supplies. So I came up here, and that’s it.”

  “Dad? You mean Jack Thorne?” He nods. “It’s all starting make sense.” Instead of the tension easing, though, it grows. “How come I’ve never seen you in the store?”

  “I don’t live here. I’m visiting.”

  Blaze struggles, and I tilt the bottle slightly. It’s almost empty. I know it’s important not to let her head rise too high or the milk can enter her lungs.

  “This puts a different spin on things.”

  “Does it?”

  All the warm, fuzzy feelings are gone.

  “So he set you up to this?”

  “Up to what?”

  Hunter rubs his face with his free hand, and when he looks up, his amber eyes are stony. “You tell me.”

  I realize what a mistake I’ve made by coming. How could I have sobbed on this man’s chest? I knew there was bad blood between him and Dad. Clearly it’s spilling over onto me.

  “This has nothing to do with my dad.”

  “Come on, Aeris.”

  “He was called away on an emergency. He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

  Blaze pulls away, and we both stand. Hunter’s presence is larger than life, powerful and enigmatic and striking in this enclosed space. I feel almost claustrophobic.

  “I saw your order and I thought you might need it. And I had to return your jacket. And I saw you and Dad in the store acting weird, and I was curious, okay? And if I’m being honest, I wanted to meet you, talk with you, without being in a nightclub, or Gage barging in. But clearly that was stupid. The only reason I’m happy I came is for Blaze.”

  Hunter’s hands unclench. He wipes them on his fatigues. “Okay.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Somehow, I actually believe you. But I still don’t see how you used a borrowed card. Security measures should have stopped you.”

  “Well, they didn’t. Look, I’m telling the truth. I made a mistake. Okay? Why didn’t you question me earlier, if you were so worried?”

  “Guess I was enjoying the help.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I should let you get on your way. You leaving town soon?”

  I don’t see what that has to do with anything. I shrug and run my thumb down the side of the empty bottle. “Just tell me one thing.”

  “What’s that?” he says, cautious.

  “Why don’t you and my dad like each other?”

  A dove coos in the eaves far above. Wings flap to life as it rises and escapes through an open window.

  “Never said I didn’t like him.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “I respect him. A lot.”

  “I thought you hated each other.”

  “Not me. He’s a good man,” Hunter says. “I know where he’s coming from. Especially now.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “We’re both trying to do the right thing. Even if we disagree on how it should be done.”

  “What are you trying to do?”

  Hunter swipes at a fly and unlatches the stall door.

  “Hunter.”

  He pauses, hand on the latch. “Look, your dad helped me restore this barn and bring in the horses. And I’m really grateful. But now he’s been asking all these questions and—well, they’re not questions I can answer. Our work is classified, and I have a responsibility to my colleagues. And I guess he’s not happy with me.”

  “Why would he care about your research?”

  Hunter’s eyes are on me. His thumb traces the shape of the metal latch. “You sure he didn’t send you here to question me?”

  “That’s what you thought?”

  “So I’m wrong?”

  “Yes, you’re wrong. And you still haven’t told me what he wants to know.”

  “Maybe you should ask him.”

  I shuffle my feet in the straw. “All right. I will. I’ll tell you this much. He’s a good guy. And if anything, he’s worried about this community. People aren’t happy about having a lab here that’s researching contagious diseases.”

  “Understandable.”

  “And he’ll be upset he let you down today. He would have wanted to be here.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, the other thing you need to know is that you can’t leave this barn for the next twenty-four hours. No joke. I remember a mare dying in childbirth on my grandpa’s ranch and people took shifts watching the foal. About eight hours in, it got some kind of infection. Blaze is nowhere near out of the woods yet.”

  “Right, I should run a
n immunoglobulin test on her.”

  I glance at Blaze, her awkward limbs akimbo as she dozes in the hay. I wonder if she’s related to my Dakota. Poppy sure looked like her. Maybe they were sisters. As I watch her breathe, I know what I have to do.

  “If you don’t mind, I want to stay until my dad can get here.”

  He appears startled. “You mean until tomorrow?”

  “We have to feed her every two hours. All day. All night.”

  “You’re offering to stay here?”

  “Yes. My dad wouldn’t leave, I’ll tell you that much.” And neither would Grandpa. Since Dad provided the horses, this filly is clearly one of his. Which makes Blaze family. And I’m not going anywhere until I know she’s safe.

  “The barn’s not heated,” Hunter says.

  “Fine with me.”

  “It’s going to be a long, cold, uncomfortable night.”

  “That’s not a problem.”

  The truth is, he can argue all he wants. We already lost Poppy. I’m not leaving.

  Hunter must see this because he rubs his forehead. “You’re stubborn as hell.”

  “Guess I am.” I pick up the feed bottle and gesture at Blaze, who’s starting to make impatient, chirring calls.

  “And here I thought I was bullheaded.”

  The afternoon passes quickly, taken up by our focus on Blaze. Yet the uneasiness lingers. A thread of tension underlying everything we say.

  After what happened earlier, it’s a lonely feeling.

  Evening descends. In the hall, I sink onto a hay bale. He comes out and stands next to me, arms crossed, broad back propped against the sturdy wood planking.

  “Storm’s coming,” he says.

  I nod. “It’s going to be a big one.”

  Around us, the shadows are growing longer.

  “Why don’t you take a break,” he tells me. “Go outside and stretch your legs before it hits.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’ve been cooped up for hours. We’ve got a long night ahead. Get some fresh air.”

  I take the hint. He wants to be alone. “You’re right.”

  In the hall, part of me feels almost numb. Another part is so pent up it wants to burst. I thrust my way out into the cool, clear dusk.

  My eyes roam along the road and follow it up to the house. The place looks nothing like a research lab. I see no signs of modern technology. Why would Hunter and the others choose to retrofit a rambling estate for their work instead of using some glass-and-steel structure built expressly for their special needs?