1503951243 by Laurel Saville Read Free Book Online

that was the way things were done “downstate,” and in “the city.” Warren had met Bunny Steward once or twice. She was a slender, brittle woman who seemed to be under an invisible and yet constant strain. He couldn’t imagine it was easy being Chick Steward’s wife.
    When Dix brought Miranda in to see him, Warren was surprised to find that Chick and Bunny had produced such a lovely, diffident daughter. Miranda seemed so callow, as if she’d never heard a harsh word or suffered a disappointment, even though he knew the last year or so had been full of tragedy. Her hair was honey colored, her eyes faded-denim blue, her build slight but not insubstantial. She was almost beautiful—all that kept her from it was a sense that her features didn’t seem quite reconciled—and she had a gossamer quality to her demeanor that was striking. Warren recognized her as someone who immediately, unknowingly, unintentionally, tapped into a man’s protective instinct.
    He was aware that her father had died when a tree branch had fallen on him in a storm. He could imagine the bluster and bravado that had sent the man on his stupid, ignorant errand to stand under and look up into a groaning, decayed tree while the wind and rain whipped around him. He had heard of the brother’s death in a car accident almost a year before the father’s. He imagined the mother and daughter must be fumbling in grief. There was a washed-out, worn-thin, translucent quality to the young woman’s skin.
    After Dix led Miranda into the office, he started to leave. Miranda looked up at him in alarm, so he sat down next to her instead. Warren waited for them to explain their business. Miranda remained quiet. Dix looked at the empty, expectant face beside him and then took up a thread of brief, simple introductions. Miranda’s father had left a lot of what appeared to be unfinished business behind, Dix explained. There were no other relatives. Miranda’s mother was . . . he paused before settling on the phrase “not well.” Miranda could use some help sorting through things.
    “Dix says my father respected you,” Miranda told Warren in an unsteady voice. “I am a bit overwhelmed. I don’t know what exactly I’m supposed to do.”
    If her father had respected him, this was news to Warren. Not that it mattered. Miranda was just being polite. She had those highly honed, formally polished, and deeply ingrained manners that kept other people at a slightly uncomfortable distance. Warren knew she was not aware of this; it was just something natural to her sort of people. He also had had enough dealings with her father to suspect the man had left quite a mess behind, and that Miranda might need much more help than she could possibly imagine. He was glad she had a friend in Dix. There was also no way this inexperienced, indulged young woman could suspect what an asset Dix could be to her. Warren knew that he was one of a very few people—or perhaps the only person—who knew just how many subtle, sophisticated, and largely hidden skills and assets Dix possessed.
    Miranda placed a box of envelopes on Warren’s desk. He skimmed the return addresses. All New York City. All a lot of trouble.
    “I will be happy to help you,” Warren told Miranda in a voice he had long practice at keeping neutral. “I appreciate your trust.”
    Miranda nodded.
    “This may take a bit of time,” he said.
    It was a warning to her, but a subtle one. He didn’t want to scare her. Just prepare her. He met Dix’s eyes briefly. In that moment, he knew that Dix suspected just what a large and twisted mess they had to untangle.

    Marshall Dixon Macomb was, by nature and experience, a solitary man. He was an only child of parents who were comfortable enough with each other’s company that they rarely sought any other. They transferred this serene self-containment to him, and he grew up with trees and hillsides, dogs and horses as his companions. Having nature and animals as his