RUNAWAY (11 page)

“Izzy,” Owen corrected, wondering what he was going to owe his mother now. He should have known
she’d kept quiet about his marriage or else his grandfather would have been on his doorstep immediately, eager to meet the mother of his great-grandsons. “Her name is Isabella.”

“Well, I assume she’s taking good care of you.”

He touched the note again, sniffed the coffee in the air and swore that he smelled French toast and maple syrup. “The best.”

“So I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“What? You’re more than an hour away.”

“I’m talking to you from the limo. I’m in Paxton right now.”

Between the little carpenters and the old man, Owen’s good mood was taking a serious beating. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Not at all. I want us to have a serious, face-to-face discussion.”

Oh, God. “About…?”

“Now that you know the potential consequences of this career of yours, I’m going to persuade you to see reason and quit.”

Here they went again. “No.”

“A man died, Owen.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” he burst out. His own loud voice obliterated the last of his well-being. “Don’t you realize I can’t stop thinking of that?”

Fine. That was the damn truth of it. That Jerry was gone had been hovering over him like a black cloud since he’d come to in the hospital.

That Jerry was gone
and
that Owen hadn’t been able to prevent Jerry’s death. All his training, all their equipment and experience, none of it had been able to stop the outcome. It was just like that damn nightmare, when even aware of what was about to happen, Owen hadn’t been able to stop Jerry from going down.

“And son, I read in the paper…” Philip Marston cleared his throat. “I read in the Paxton newspaper that your colleague, he was younger than you.”

“A couple of years.”

“And that he was married.”

“I went to their wedding,” he heard himself say. “The bride’s name is Ellie.” He thought of her apple cheeks and her sparkling blue eyes. Even in a wedding dress and veil, she’d looked hardly older than a teenager. She and Jerry had been high school sweethearts and he’d worn that same jaunty grin at the altar that Owen had seen on his face in the nightmare.

His grandfather’s voice lowered to a gruffer note. “The young widow is eight months pregnant.”

The carpenters synchronized their hammers, assaulting Owen’s skull with a single joint blow. He squeezed his eyes against the pain. “Yes.” Eight months pregnant. Oh, damn it all, yes.

It was that fact he’d been avoiding facing since he’d learned of Jerry’s death. It’s why he hadn’t moved hell and high water to make it to the funeral. It was why he’d not called Ellie, or sent a separate floral arrangement besides the one the station had
added his name to and the other that his mother had sent from the entire Marston clan.

He hadn’t wanted to think about it.

Jerry had been so psyched to be a dad. He swore he was going to be the kind who read to his toddler every night. He’d coach if the child was into sports, he’d applaud if the kid was into dance recitals, he’d listen to squeaky violin lessons and make a hundred kites catch wind.

Jerry said he’d had that kind of father himself and wanted to give his son or daughter every wonderful childhood moment that he’d experienced. Jerry’s dad had passed away five years before. Jerry two weeks ago.

Leaving no one to do all those things for Jerry and Ellie’s child because Jerry had died.

And Owen survived.

Why?

He hadn’t wanted to ask himself that question because he knew there was no good answer.

Why?

Why?

He forced the question from his mind. “Look, Granddad—”

“I’m walking up your front steps, Owen,” the old man said. “You better tell your young woman to let me in.”

And remind her not to give away that she was Owen’s wife, he thought, hobbling toward the bed
room door. Great. His positive mood was gone for good. He touched the note in his pocket. And now he’d found the perfect way to extinguish hers, too.

Izzy hauled in a deep breath before opening Owen’s front door. She knew who was on the other side. Philip Marston. His grandson, the man she’d slept with the night before, had just called her up the stairs in an urgent voice and explained that his grandfather was moments away and that she’d been identified as the “health worker” by his mother. For reasons of their privacy, Owen supposed, or their sanity, he’d added.

He’d looked tense and tired, the exact opposite of how she’d felt upon waking up. She hoped it was the unexpected arrival of his grandfather that was affecting his mood, but…well, she just wasn’t going to worry about it. Her state of mind was buoyant, and she planned on keeping it that way.

Why not? She’d been wondering for weeks about what she’d missed out on with Owen, and now she knew. Yes, as he’d suspected, they danced on the mattress as well as they did in the clubs in Las Vegas. Satisfying one’s curiosity could be a positive experience.

On her next breath, she pulled open the door. The impression of a tall, gray-haired man flashed through her brain before she found herself flat on her back on the floor, a yellow monster hanging over her.

“Nugget,” the man 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 frowned. “All first responders aren’t my grandson.”

Izzy looked over at Owen. It was obvious he
wasn’t listening to their exchange. His gaze was unfocused and trained on some inner movie screen, and uneasiness trickled down her back. It made her voice sharp. “You don’t give your grandson much respect,” she said, more direct than her usual Izzy’s-here-to-please style. “His work is important.”

“Hah.” The older man sent her another piercing look. “Well. You’re awfully loyal for a temporary, hourly employee.”

That caught Owen’s attention, and he looked over. “Leave Izzy alone, Granddad.”

“What?”

“Leave Izzy alone,” Owen ground out.

“I’m not bothering her,” his grandfather replied in a mild voice. “Now, Nugget on the other hand…”

She glanced down and had to laugh. She’d been so caught up in the conversation that she hadn’t realized the beast was resting his head on her lap. When it came to canines, bacon must hold a special power.

“I don’t know anything about dogs.” Her hand caressed the buttery fur on the top of his head.

“I thought I explained all about them last night,” Owen murmured.

It startled another laugh out of her, but then it died, as “last night” came back to her: Owen’s grin, his touch, the intimacy of the darkness and his caresses.

In the silence surrounding them, his grandfather humphed. “Nothing anyone has said negates my concerns, Owen. Your coworker was killed.”

His grandson stilled. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

And Izzy could see the knowledge of it wash over Owen. His posture didn’t change—it remained straight and strong—but she could see anguish ripple across his face, deadening the color of his eyes and setting his mouth into a grim line. His gaze unfocused again and she knew he was once again tuning them out.

She leaned forward. “Owen…”

Her voice jerked him out of his reverie. He blinked, his gaze focusing on her. “Jerry’s wife, Ellie, is expecting a baby in a few weeks. Maybe any day now, I’m not sure.”

“Oh, Owen.”

“She’s a widow. That baby won’t have a father.”

“Exactly my point,” Philip Marston boomed. “You’ll get married soon. You’ll have a child. Will you still take the same risks with your life? I say leave now, and get back into the family business where you belong.”

You’ll get married soon. You’ll have a child.

Of course he would. She and Owen would undo their whim of a wedding and he’d find himself a real wife.

That couldn’t be her, because she couldn’t see herself settling down. She didn’t know how to do it. How did anyone trust someone else with their heart?

“Maybe you’re right, Granddad,” Owen said. “I’ll be thinking about that.”

Izzy barely heard him. She pushed out of her chair, murmuring something about cleaning up the breakfast dishes. With the Nug dogging her footsteps—so that’s where the phrase came from, she thought—she returned to the kitchen. There, she stood, unmoving, as Philip Marston’s words repeated in her head.

You’ll get married soon. You’ll have a child.

Yes, she wasn’t part of that picture, was she? She caught sight of her reflection in the silver surface of the refrigerator and her hands went to her belly. Really, she couldn’t see herself that way. Pregnant and barefoot? No.

Pregnant and wearing those cute slides she’d spied at Nordstrom the other day? Well…

No!

And…yes.

The dog pressed up against her thigh and she rubbed the top of his head. “I’m crazy, right?” she whispered.

Because there was a picture forming in her mind. Izzy, the perpetual outsider, having her very own family. Being someone’s wife.

Owen’s wife.

The Nug whined, the sound popping that aberrant mental bubble. With a sigh, she glanced down at the dog. “Yeah, I know. You’re hoping for more bacon to fly through the air, and when pigs do that very same thing is when I’ll allow myself to rely on someone for that forever-after thing.”

On another sigh, she moved to the sink and started dealing with the dishes, not allowing herself to get caught up in the domestic intimacy of it all. “It may be like playing house,” she told the Nug, who continued his crumb surveillance, “but it’s not my house, and this is definitely not the way I would play it anyway.”

Nobody was supposed to have to cook
and
clean up, after all. “Which just goes to show I’m merely the hired help. The health worker, right, Nug?” Even Owen’s mother had figured out Izzy wasn’t wife material.

The doorbell rang and she was glad for an excuse to hurry away from her own thoughts. She swung open the door, only to see a mail service truck lumber off. On the doorstep were four large cardboard boxes.

Frowning, she checked the address.

It was Owen’s, all right.

But the name on the
To:
line was all wrong.

Isabella Cavaletti Marston.

Chapter Eight

O
wen groaned from the easy chair by his bedroom window as he watched his brother stride over the threshold, his arms full of bound reports. “Tell me those aren’t what I think they are.”