She gulped, then gulped again. She told herself that people argued all the time. Some people fought nice; others fought mean and loud. And men sometimes used anger like fiber, just a way to clear out their systems, an easy purge.

But the way her pulse rate was suddenly hiccupping-as if adrenaline was shooting up her veins-she knew this wasn’t likely some impassioned argument about politics or ball scores. Something was wrong, really wrong.

A thump indicated that something was thrown. Then…more loud voices. Then nothing.

A spank-sharp wind slapped her cheeks as she barreled down the ladder. In the next life, when she got around to growing up, she wasn’t going to interfere in other people’s business-ever. But right now she was afraid that thump meant someone had been hurt, and could need help.

That was stupid thinking, she knew. Even if the fight had turned physical, dangerous, she was the last person who had the power to stop it. The problem was, she might well be the only outside person who’d heard it. And the other problem was that she’d never had a brain when someone could be hurt. It was a genetic flaw. Back in school, she’d see a kid hounded by a bully and she’d hurled herself onto the bully’s back, come home bruised and wincing.

She should have learned.

She slid open the door to the salon-and found nothing, except for a chunky book about Alaskan birds on the carpet. It was definitely a sacrilege, in her view, to throw such a gorgeous book, but there was no other sign of a struggle, no blood, nothing.

Shaking her head, she stalked through the dining room into the galley. The argument had made her uneasy, oddly shaken.

Cooking was the answer. Cooking was always the answer. The galley was her nest; she already knew every nook and cranny. Although it was still too early to start dinner prep, she could at least start messing around.