by Sandra Hill
"I think you just took five steps forward and ten steps backward in your healing with that comment."
"So what kind of contract do you usually do?" he asked, not bothering to hide his chagrin.
"We do a mental-health diagnosis, which we discuss with the patient. Then we set up goals for how to overcome those mental problems and enter back into society as a productive member... though some of our patients still work with us after they've left the clinic."
"I could do that," he concluded enthusiastically.
"Wonderful."
He could tell she was about to conclude their meeting, which he wasn't prepared to do just yet.
"Wait," he said, stretching out a hand to encircle the nape of her neck. The short hairs were prickly and silky at the same time against his fingertips. "Do you not conclude contracts in a particular way, as they do in my country... especially when the contract is a man-woman one?"
"Wh-what do you mean?"
Jorund saw the small pulse leap in her throat, as if she enjoyed his touch, despite herself, and yearned for more. Well, she was about to get more, if he had his way.
"In my culture, a true Norseman likes to seal his bargains with"—he leaned forward "a kiss."
"Liar," she whispered.
The blood in Jorund's veins was pumping so wildly, he was in no condition to protest her insult.
His lips brushed hers then, back and forth, light as a feather, but the pleasure it evoked was so intense, he moaned against her lips. Or was it she who moaned into his mouth? He could not help himself then. He deepened the kiss and slipped his tongue between her parted lips. Sweet, sweet, sweet, she was. And hot!
He drew back sharply, and withdrew his hand. He stared at her, mesmerized.
She stared at him, mesmerized.
It was she who spoke first. He could tell that she was about to say that this shouldn't have happened, or that it wouldn't happen again, as women throughout the ages were wont to do after they had succumbed to temptation, but instead she surprised even herself by blurting out an irrelevancy.
"I thought you didn't like kisses," she whispered in that sex-voice that seeped under his skin and grabbed at his loins with a jolt.
At first he was unable to utter a word. When he did, it was in a choked growl.
"I changed my mind."
The next day...
Joe was about to begin his first group-therapy session, and Maggie was more than a little nervous. It had taken some convincing to have Harry agree to Joe's moving into therapy so quickly, but even he was impressed with the way the man, who still claimed to be a tenth-century Viking, was mixing in with the others. Not only had he signed the personal contract required by Rainbow, the rules of which must be obeyed or the patient would be expelled, but he had behaved himself at dinner the night before, and he'd taken to the workout room with great enthusiasm.
One of the aides reported to her this morning that Jorund had lifted weights like an Olympian, and had manned the rowing machine as if it were an actual boat. In fact, he'd given it a name... Fierce Wizard, or some such thing. In true leadership fashion, he had set two other patients, who had been lethargic about exercise thus far, to rowing in tandem. You'd think they were the potential crew members of a... well, a longship.
Still, it was good to see Joe being proactive about something, anything. So much progress in such a short time was hard for Maggie to comprehend, but she wasn't about to protest a good thing.
"Are you ready?" he asked on arrival at his new room, where he was waiting for her. This room was the same as the other, sans barred windows and two-way mirrors on the corridor wall. She was about to escort him to the terrace room where group-therapy sessions were held. It was a light, sunny place that everyone liked.
"I must be. We have only five more days to get my ship in shape." He jiggled his eyebrows at her with his little joke, which was really odd because he appeared to be a man little inclined to teasing.
It was adorable the way he deliberately misinterpreted words and phrases. At least, she assumed it was deliberate. The other possibility meant more hurdles for them to jump in his therapy. And actually, he was adorable, period. Today he was wearing a white Dallas Cowboys T-shirt tucked into a pair of tight-fitting jeans and hightop athletic shoes. His long blond hair was held back off his face with a rubber band.
"We're wearing matching braies," he commented as they strolled down the corridor.
She looked down, then over at him. Yes, they were both wearing denim braies, which appeared to be the word Joe used for pants. But Maggie wasn't wearing a sweater or T-shirt today, as she usually did for these sessions. Instead she wore a white cotton blouse and a blue blazer.
Group-therapy day was usually one on which she deliberately chose casual clothes to fit in with her patients. But today, she suspected, she hadn't wanted to be disconcerted by any hot looks toward any part of her anatomy... in particular, her breasts.
"I like you better in those sheer hose you wore yesterday," he mentioned, "but tight braies have a certain allure, too."
As if she cared!
Okay, she hardly cared.
She was trying not to care.
Oh, lordy!
Heads pivoted as they passed, and not just those of the women staff and patients. Men gawked, too. Joe Rand was a sight to see. It wasn't just his immense height or good looks. It was the way he carried himself, as if he were someone important. No, that wasn't quite it. It was pride, or grace, or an innate air of leadership... she couldn't say for sure which.
"Do I pass your inspection?" he asked, apparently aware of her scrutiny.
"Just checking out your new duds. Thank God for Goodwill."
She wasn't fooling him one bit. He was enjoying her discomfort immensely. That was especially obvious when his gaze snagged on her lips, and paused.
Was he remembering their kiss?
She had certainly been able to think of little else. And her dreams last night had been X-rated. For a man who disliked kisses, he'd sure known a whole lot of ways to kiss. In her dreams, at least.
"Oh, lady, if you're thinking what I think you are, I am not going to be able to concentrate on anything during this group-therapy business. Leastways, anything except how soon I can bed you."
Maggie gasped. "I was not thinking anything at all like that." Exactly. "I will tell you this, Joe: there can be no repeat of what happened yesterday. I'm willing to overlook one kiss. You caught me off guard. But if you try it again while you're my patient, I'm going to have to excuse myself from your case."
The knowing look he gave her didn't bode well for Maggie. This Viking was going to do whatever he wanted. And he wasn't fooled one bit by her insinuation that the kiss had been a one-sided deal. She had participated, too.
And enjoyed it immensely.
Luckily, they were interrupted then by Harry, who was on his way to a budget meeting.
"How do you do, Joe?" Harry reached out and shook Joe's hand... an action that Joe looked on with puzzlement. "I'm Dr. Harrison Seabold. I know we've met before, but I just thought I'd introduce myself again. Glad to see you moving around, buddy. And talking."
Joe looked at their joined hands, then at Maggie. "Is this a gesture of welcome in your land?"
"Yes. Exactly," she said, which prompted him to reach out and shake her hand, as well... heartily.
"How do you do?" he repeated woodenly.
"Not quite so tight," she advised, and he loosened his iron grip.
"See," he pointed out as they continued to the end of the hall. "I can adapt to your culture."
In little ways, he could. But Maggie wondered how he would handle the bigger things—like his first group-therapy session.
The others were already there when they arrived, sitting about in a circle of folding chairs.
Steve Askey was an attractive, fiftyish former professional baseball player and Navy SEAL vet, who suffered from PTSD, posttraumatic stress disorder. His alcoholism and subsequent self de
structive behavior had already resulted in a broken marriage, which had further escalated his problems. Despite being on the wagon for a year, he thought he had no future. She could see it in his posture as he slumped in his chair, staring at nothing.
Chuck Belammy, thirty, was purported to have multiple-personality disorder, except that his was the darnedest case Maggie had ever heard of. His personalities were animals: a cow who ate grass and mooed all the time, a galloping horse, a chicken pecking for kernels of corn, a rooster crowing—which could be annoying in a hospital setting—and a slithering snake. His animal personas all had names. Right now he must be Bessie, because he was making mooing sounds and chewing his cud. Actually, Chuck's "animal MPD" was a sham... something the very intelligent young man had dreamed up to throw his doctors off track. Underneath, he hid some other mental problems that he deemed too horrible or embarrassing—to share... yet.
Natalie Blue, twenty-four, was agoraphobic—afraid to leave her house, even to go shopping. Ironically, she dreamed of being a country-western singer, which would be impossible if she was unable to perform before crowds. But she'd progressed tremendously in the past six months. At least now she came to them as an outpatient. There was a time when she'd been unable to leave the security of her bedroom.
Rosalyn Harris, twenty-eight, was a mousy librarian, when she was able to work. Most often she just rocked back and forth. Sometimes Rosalyn mutilated herself. Thus far Maggie had been unable to diagnose the cause of her condition, except that she had feelings of low self-worth. Rosalyn lived at home and was brought to the clinic weekly by her parents, who insisted on her getting therapy because they believed she was anorexic. Maggie thought there might be some other reason for her withdrawal... something Rosalyn had yet to disclose.
Harvey Lutz, a nerdy looking young man in his early twenties, was a bipolar obsessive-compulsive who had a habit of continually counting things and lining them up. Right now he was counting lint pills on his wool trousers. Every time he got to twelve, he stumbled and started over.
Fred Bernstein, a balding, middle-aged man, was delusional, hiding his problems in fantasy identities. From one week to the next, she never knew if he was some famous movie star, athlete, or biblical figure. She couldn't wait to hear why he was carrying two large, ironstone dinner platters today. The kitchen staff wouldn't be pleased to know they were missing.
Sometimes there were extra people in the group: a biker from Houston with head injuries, a chronically depressed accountant who yearned for a lost love, and various others. The wonderful thing about Rainbow, in Maggie's opinion, was that people could come and go, as their ailments required.
Maggie sat down next to Rosalyn and motioned for Joe to sit across the circle, with Chuck on one side and Steve on the other. That was when she realized that Joe wasn't beside her. Looking up, she saw him still standing in the doorway, gawking at the group as if he'd landed in... well, Bedlam.
But what he said was, "Is this Niflheim?"
Jorund could not believe his eyes. He'd never seen so many lackwitted people in one room in all his life. Even Viking warriors in the midst of battle who had gone berserk did not look this bizarre.
The most difficult thing to accept in this scenario was that Mag-he thought he was as demented as this lot of mush-brains. Raising his chin, Jorund fixed a glower on the female who had brought him there, and immediately eased his temper. There was a pleading expression on her face—one that begged him not to make a scene, or embarrass her in front of her other pay-shuns.
Biting his bottom lip to keep him from saying what he really thought, Jorund followed Mag-he's direction and sat in a seat across from her.
Almost immediately, he jumped when he got a good view of the man sitting next to
him... and what he was doing.
"Bock, hock, bock, bock, hock!" the red-haired young man, who couldn't have seen more than thirty winters, was clucking as he bobbed his head like a rooster.
Jorund glanced at Mag-he, then back at the man, who greeted him with, "Cock-adoodle-do!" Yea, I was correct. A rooster.
"Everyone is looking good today," Mag-he said brightly.
Is she demented, too? Everyone did not look good, in Jorund's opinion. In fact, they were a sorry lot, if he'd ever seen one.
"We have a new group member today." She went around the circle and told Jorund each of their names ... Steve, Chuck, Not-a-lie, Rosalyn, Furr-red, and Hair-vee. "I'd like to introduce you all to Joe Rand," Mag-he was saying.
They all stared at him curiously, and a woman who was as plain as a brown field mouse whistled under her breath, which seemed to surprise everyone. At least it took everyone's attention away from him.
"Did you say something, Rosalyn?" Mag-he asked excitedly.
The mouse woman kept her gaze downward, as if there were something important on the legs of her gray braies, which she pleated and unpleated in a jittery fashion. She refused to answer. And Jorund noticed something else: there were scars all over her forearms, like cuts from a sharp blade, and small burn marks, too.
Mag-he shrugged at the uncooperative pay-shun and was about to speak herself, but Jorund felt the need to correct something before she started.
"Ah, Dock-whore Muck-bride." He waved a hand at her to get her attention.
The nervous tapping of her wooden stick on the parchment pad told him she was tense over what he might say.
"My name is not Joe Rand. It is Jorund... Jorund Ericsson." While he spoke, he stood and went to each person in the circle and pumped their right hands with his fight hand in salutation, repeating over and over, "How do you do?" It was a strange ritual, but then there were strange customs in many of the lands he'd visited.
She hesitated at his insistence on using his real name, then agreed with a nod of her head. "Fine, Jorund it is then... unless of course you go by the nickname of Joe, as well."
"I never have, in the past."
"Well, it's up to you," she said cheerily, as if it were of great import what name he answered to.
"I care not what you call me," he grumbled. "I am Jorund the Warrior. If you want to call me Joe, it is neither here nor there to me, though I think Joe the Warrior sounds mighty peculiar. By the by, am I cured yet?"
"No, you're not cured yet," she declared with a laugh, then addressed the group.
"Joe has a great sense of humor. Ha, ha, ha."
I do?
"Jorund the Warrior, huh?" a man on his other side commented. "You one of them WWF crazies or something?" The man was about fifty years old with a receding hairline but a well-honed body that would do a Norseman proud. He wore the same blue braies as Jorund did... in fact, all the men, and Mag-he, too. His short-sleeved shert carried the words U.S. Navy SEAL.
It was odd this practice they had in this country of carrying messages on their sherts. Jorund had noticed this first at the orca place. Now not only did the man on one side of him wear words on his apparel about seals, but the clodpole on the other side proclaimed on his long-sleeved shert, I Don't Suffer from Insanity; I Enjoy Every Minute of It.
Back to the seal man. " 'Double-ewe, double ewe, if?' " Jorund inquired, as if he cared a whit... which he did not. The whole time he was thinking, Good Lord! One of these half-brains thinks he's a rooster, and the other thinks he's a seal.
What next?
"Cra-aaazy! I'm cra-aaazy for feelin' so lonely."
Another woman, huddled in a chair in the corner, began to sing.
Jorund almost fell out of his seat at the sudden singing.
The female was young, in her twenties, and pretty in a frightened-bird sort of way. Her voice was rather melodious, but singing spontaneously struck Jorund as rather... well, crazy. Crazy was a word he had learned from the black world box in his room, which he had come to find out was called a tea-vee.
"I go out walkin' after midnight..." the woman sang next.
He saw no one walking, and it was definitely far from midnight. Jorund glanced around and noticed that no on
e paid any mind to the singer. It was as if they didn't even hear her, or mayhap they were ignoring her, to spare her humiliation.
"WWF is the World Wrestling Federation," Mag-he explained.
At first, Jorund had to think what she was referring to; then he recalled that the seal man had asked if he was in the double-ewe, double-ewe, if.
"It includes professional wrestlers who put on rather flamboyant acts in the ring."
Jorund had no idea what she'd just said.
"Like Hulk Hogan. 'Stone Cold' Steve Austin. Jake the Snake. Or Jesse 'the Body' Ventura," the seal offered.
"I knew a Norseman once who called himself Snorri the Snake; he had a special talent for fluttering his tongue that women especially liked. But he lost a leg in some Saxon battle a few years back. 'Tis hard to keep track of all the Norse-Saxon battles. There are so many of them. The English weasels are always trying to provoke us Vikings." Jorund couldn't believe he was jabbering away like a magpie.
The rooster next to him suddenly became a snake and was darting his tongue in and out of his mouth and making slithering motions with his shoulders. Everyone else was gaping at Jorund as if he'd sprouted three heads, but they didn't even blink at the snake.
Jorund knew he spoke in what they considered a foreign accent, in words they were unfamiliar with, but really, he was not the odd bead in this circle. He continued expounding: "I can wrestle, of course, but mostly I am just a Viking... a Viking soldier."
"A soldier!" Steve, the seal fellow on his other side, exclaimed. "Son of a bitch! Don't tell me you have PTSD, too."
Jorund gave his attention to the man, who was sitting up straighter now.
"Pea-tea-ass-deed?"
"That's posttraumatic stress disorder," Mag-he interjected. "It's a syndrome that many soldiers get after active duty."
Another person with a sin-drone. Just like me.
"You were a warrior?" he asked Steve. "And you suffer from this Pea-tea-ass-deed?"
"Hell, yes. Along with alcoholism, chronic depression, a broken marriage, impotence, 'Nam shakes, flashbacks, nightmares that could turn your hair white. You name it, I got it."
