RUNAWAY by Christie Ridgway Page B

scolded. “Is that any way for a Marston to act?”
    The big dog swiped her chin with a wet tongue, then pranced backward to stare at her with big brown eyes. Izzy cautiously sat up.
    “Granddad? You brought the dog?”
    Izzy glanced back to see Owen on the upper landing. Then she returned her gaze to the canine standing at attention, close enough that she could feel his breath wash over her face.
    “It’s okay, Izzy,” Owen said.
    Mr. Marston frowned down at her. “Not afraid of dogs, are you?”
    “Um…I don’t know any dogs. Not, um, this close and personal, anyway.” The elderly ladies she’d most often stayed with had been cat people. She slowly climbed to her feet, and, one eye on the dog, held her hand out to the older man. “I’m Isabella Cavaletti, Mr. Marston.”
    His shake was brief and businesslike. “Good to meet you. And this champion yellow Labrador is none other than Marston’s Golden Nugget.”
    “Or, as we find more appropriate, the Nug,” Owen added.
    “Okay,” Izzy said. The dog looked more like a “Nug” than a champion. He was still watching her with his doggy eyes and his tongue hanging out. “Would everybody, um, like some breakfast?”
    “You’re not here to wait on us,” Owen started.

    His grandfather spoke over him. “Just coffee for me, please. Black. Owen, your mother said you’re headquartered upstairs during your recovery. Can I help you back to bed?”
    “I don’t need to lie down,” his grandson grumbled. “But come on up, Granddad.”
    To her dismay, the dog hung around in the kitchen while she put together a tray. Did he somehow think she was suspect? Could he tell she was a counterfeit “health worker”?
    Then she happened to knock a piece of bacon off a plate, sending it toward the floor. Nugget, aka “the Nug,” caught it in midair. She stared at him. “You’re not suspicious, you’re a mooch.”
    He didn’t appear to take offense. In fact, he kept even closer to her as she put Owen’s plate on the tray, the coffees, and then carried the food and beverages up the stairs. She found the two men around the small meal table she’d set up. Trying to remain unobtrusive, she put Owen’s breakfast in front of him and then placed the mug of black coffee at Mr. Marston’s elbow.
    She and the Nug were ready to slink off when Owen caught her wrist. “Stay,” he said, his tone soft.
    His grandfather glanced up at her. “By all means. Maybe an objective viewpoint is exactly what we need.”
    Izzy avoided both men’s gaze. Objective? Could she possibly be nonpartisan when she’d spent the night before in Owen’s arms? “I, um…” But her protest,such as it was, died, as she lowered herself to the free chair. Even without looking directly into his eyes, she was aware that Owen’s tense, tired expression had turned grim. She couldn’t ignore that, could she?
    He was her husband, after all.
    “I’m just explaining to my grandson, here, that it’s time to reconsider his choice of career.”
    Izzy glanced at Owen. “Well—”
    “It was fine for a time, but…”
    She glanced at Owen again. His face was expressionless. She remembered the conversation he’d had with his mother, when he’d defended his job as a firefighter, but now he didn’t look interested in sticking up for himself. “I think he likes his work.”
    “Because he hasn’t truly considered the consequences,” Philip Marston said with a wave of his hand. “Young men believe themselves immortal. It’s biology. The brain isn’t sufficiently formed to foresee the risks of a particular action.”
    “Well, that’s true of many adolescents,” Izzy agreed. “But you can’t lump into that group every single person who pursues a job that involves some personal risk.”
    Owen’s grandfather’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me again how you came to be a home health worker?”
    She ignored the question. “We need our first responders. Surely you would admit that.”
    The elder Mr. Marston