Middle-aged and with unnaturally dark brown hair and a stout figure, Mrs. E, as she’d told them she preferred to be called, caved beneath the bright expectancy and stubborn charm of “Caitydid Migelo.” Her sigh gave away her surrender.

“The rare ones aren’t for release, dear. But if you’d like to see the butterfly house, I have some endangered species there. I don’t get many folks interested in seeing my treasures, other than the odd collector, and I won’t sell to them only to have their desiccated little bodies displayed on a wall like some trophy.”

“That’s so sweet of you!” Cait said, her expression wide-eyed, admiring. “Could I see those before we make our decision about which butterflies we’d like to have released during our nuptials?”

Nuptials? He’d never heard Cait use that word before. It made him shiver with dread. And what was she up to? The woman had tons of bugs. She’d never miss one from those swarming the monarch shed.

As Mrs. E turned on the beaten path to lead the way, Sam mouthed, What are you doing?

Cait lifted her shoulders. Go with it.

Mrs. E led them through another deeply wooded trail in her large backyard, toward a plastic-wrapped domed greenhouse. “It’s such a thrill to have visitors. Most of my business is conducted via the Internet these days.”

Cait tugged her hand free and skipped behind the older woman, her hair bobbing behind her. She tossed a smile over her shoulder and gave Sam a wink.

He couldn’t help but smile at her antics.

“I had no idea so many people were ordering butterflies for their weddings,” Cait jabbered on. “But when Aunt Celeste mentioned there were local breeders, I had to come see. I can’t imagine anything more appropriate for a wedding.”

Mrs. E nodded. “Yes, a caterpillar leaving its chrysalis to fly free… The change is so very symbolic of new life, isn’t it? Although butterflies are becoming the rage at funerals these days too.”

Sam shook his head at the nonsense. The thought of the type of wedding or funeral where butterflies flying out of boxes would be appropriate made him itch.

Cait had been far more sensible when they’d decided to marry. A service at City Hall with a judge had taken all of fifteen minutes. The only thing either of them had wanted to savor was the wedding night.

“You’re so very lucky you came today,” Mrs. E said, pausing at the door of yet another shed. “I found a Hessel’s hairstreak nectaring on an Amelanchier today. I bought an Atlantic white cedar, that’s the hairstreak’s host tree, and planted it years ago, hoping it would thrive so that I could see this day.”

“It’s that rare?” Cait said, her excitement unfeigned.

Mrs. E unlocked the rickety plastic door and pushed it open. “On the endangered species list, my dear. Just wait until you see it.”

As they entered, Sam blew out a breath, worried because Cait’s expression had lost its giddy vacancy for a split second.

Her eyes narrowed as her gaze flitted about, looking for her quarry. “What’s a hairstreak look like? I’m assuming that’s a butterfly, or is it a moth?”

“A butterfly. Minty green and brown. Ahhh. Here he is.”

The woman stood with her hands clasped in delight beside a butterfly “nectaring” on a white flower.

Sam eyed it, wondering about the fuss but admitting it was pretty. Mostly vivid green, the insect had white spots on its forewings, a dashed white line on its hindwings, and a rim of brown and black along the edges of its delicate larger wings.

“She’s perfect,” Cait whispered.

With his stomach sinking to his toes, he watched as Cait pulled her phone surreptitiously from her pocket and held it to the side while she tapped the screen.

A telephone rang in the distance.

Mrs. E turned toward the distant sound. “Oh my. That might be another customer. If you would come with me…”

Cait’s expression fell. Disappointment shone in her puppy-like eyes. “Can we stay here while you answer your call?” she asked, the wheedling note reentering her voice. “It’s so beautiful and peaceful, the ambience I need to convince my fiancé that butterflies are just the thing we need to finish off our wedding plans.”

The woman’s gaze darted to her precious butterfly, her smile slipping. “Well, if you promise not to touch a thing. I won’t be a moment.”

Cait smiled, her gaze following the woman until she left through the plastic door. Then she whipped her head toward Sam. “Quick, your coffee cup.”

Sam shook his head. “Cait, why not ask her for one of the monarchs? She has hundreds.”

She pulled a mulish face. “Because this butterfly has to be special.”

“It has to be endangered?”

“It’s the most special one here.” She stomped her foot. “Now give me that cup.”

Still in bride mode. He thought maybe the wedding thing had gone a little too far because she was acting like a bridezilla. But he handed her the cup. She was the witch. She knew what kind of butterfly she needed to summon the spirit of Sylvia Reyes.

She popped the lid and stepped off the path next to the tree. Then she lifted the cup over the butterfly, still munching happily away. But the moment she dropped the cup, the butterfly fluttered off. “Shit. Help me, Sam. Don’t let that butterfly get away!”

Sam started to lift his hands to tell her she was on her own, but her eyebrows dropped and she gave him that hundred-yard bridezilla stare guaranteed to scare the piss out of any red-blooded man.

And oddly, that look produced a feeling inside him, one that curdled his insides and made him start to sweat. “Honey, what do you want me to do?” he found himself saying automatically.

Cait hopped back onto the path and passed him the cup and lid. “Catch it! We have to get him before she comes back.”

Sam tucked the lid into his pants pocket and then followed her wild gaze as she scanned the greenhouse. He spotted the green butterfly fluttering on the branch of the stunted tree. “There,” he said, pointing, and then he leapt forward, the Styrofoam cup raised. He slowed once he neared the bug.

“Don’t let him get away. And don’t hurt him.”

“Shush,” he whispered.

“Like he can hear you?” she snarled. “Do butterflies even have ears?”

“Why am I suddenly wishing I was green and had wings?” Sam muttered. He stared down at the butterfly as its wings fluttered twice and its skinny little legs repositioned until it stared directly back at Sam. His heartbeat slowed, his eyes strained, unblinking as he brought the cup nearer.

“She’s coming back,” Cait hissed.

“Lord, fuck a duck,” he muttered and clapped the cup over the branch, trapping the butterfly.

A door rattled in the distance. “Miss Migelo? Yoohoo, I’m back. Um, what are you doing?”

Sam cursed, scooped his hand under the cup and turned, sure he’d just gotten caught, but his gaze snagged on Cait, who was sitting, holding banana slices while half a dozen butterflies swarmed her fingers.

He clipped the lid in place and then hid the cup behind him as he stepped back onto the path. “Honey, we have to go. Aunt Celeste is expecting us for dinner.”

“Do we have to?” she whined, but then her eyes nearly crossed as a plain brown-and-black butterfly flitted to the top of her head.

“Will you be placing an order today?” Mrs. E asked, her voice sounding strained.

“We’ll get back to you,” Sam said. “But thanks so much for your time and for sharing this,” he said, spreading his hands, forgetting about the cup in his hand for a second and wondering if the woman could hear the soft thuds of the butterfly trying to escape its confines.

Sam reached down with his free hand and hauled Cait to her feet. Then he wrapped his arm around her waist to propel her toward the door.

“Just give me a ring,” Mrs. E called after them. “And you can order directly from the website.”