Truly, Madly Viking

by Sandra Hill

  "NO! Natalie cried, standing abruptly. Everyone just stared at her. "I'll do it. I will. I'm going to do it." She looked at Joe then. "Will you walk me up there? I'm not sure my wobbly legs will carry me that far."

  "For a certainty, m'lady."

  Joe took Natalie to the side steps leading to the stage, where one of the band members helped her up. With a few whispered instructions, Natalie walked up to the standing microphone. By the pallor of her face and her stiff posture, she seemed to think it was a guillotine.

  But then everything changed.

  With the first drawn-out, clear note of Patsy Cline's "Crazy," Natalie Blue had everyone's attention. Her voice was powerful and poignant and wonderfully unique as she crooned, "Cra-aazy. I'm cra-aazy for feelin' so lonely." By the end of the song, Maggie had tears in her eyes, and she knew—she just knew—that someday people would mark this place and this day as the time that Natalie Blue began her professional career. The crowd gave her a standing ovation, shouting for an encore. And Natalie, surprisingly poised for a person consumed with a fear of crowds, smiled and eased into the piercing "Sweet Dreams."

  To no one's surprise, Natalie won the competition for the day, and promised to come back for the final event. Whether she would crumble once they left the club, or revert back to her old phobias, Maggie couldn't say for sure, but at least for tonight Natalie was a big hit. And New Year's Eve would be a goal they could aim for in therapy.

  Joe glanced her way and winked smugly. "You may thank me now or later."

  "Oh, really." She laughed.

  "Methinks I will dance now."

  "Huh?"

  "Yea, you may thank me by dancing with me, Dock-whore Muck-bride."

  "I already told you that a doctor is—"

  He chucked her under the chin. "Must you always be so serious?"

  "Hey, that should be my line to you. You're the one who's always serious."

  Meanwhile, Joe had been leading her toward the sawdust-covered dance floor, where Steve and Rosalyn and Harry and Natalie were-already beginning to dance to, appropriately, "The Dance" by Garth Brooks.

  A slow dance! Maggie realized at once, and shot a suspicious glare at Joe.

  Expressionless, he was holding his arms open to her, but his gray eyes, usually somber and grim, were twinkling with mischief.

  "I prefer this type of dancing to the line dancing. Not that I know how, but it does not look too hard. In truth, it resembles making love, only standing up."

  Maggie gasped, but she wasn't sure if it was because of his words, or the fact that he pulled her into a full-frontal embrace that involved his arms being locked around her waist and her shoes dangling off the floor. Most important, they were chest to chest, belly to belly, and, well... you-know-what to you-know-what. Oh, my God! she thought.

  "Oh... my... God!" Joe choked out, aloud. There was no satisfaction in knowing he shared her flash-fire arousal at their innocent embrace. No, she corrected herself immediately. There was nothing innocent about the chemistry that exploded between them at the merest touch, whether it was dancing or a scorching kiss.

  "I told you this couldn't happen again," she said in a strained voice as he swayed from foot to foot... his Viking version of dancing, she supposed.

  "Nay, m'lady. You told me we could not kiss again. You did not tell me that we couldn't dance."

  "This is not dancing."

  "It's not?" he asked, eyebrows raised in question.

  "Both feet of both partners need to be on the floor to qualify as dancing."

  "They do?" He stared at her, dubiously. "More's the pity."

  He let her body slide down his body till her flat shoes rested on the floor. The sensations he created along the way were so intense Maggie feared her eyeballs might be rolling back in her head. She blinked once, then twice, just to make sure.

  "Just holding you like this makes me breathless," Joe told her in a raspy voice.

  His eyes were heavy-lidded and smoldering.

  Breathless? I make him breathless? Oh, why does it feel so good to know I can affect him so? And, hey, is that my heart beating like a jackhammer? "You make me blush when you look at me like that. Stop it!"

  A slow grin spread across his lips. And he continued looking.

  She dropped her eyes before his steady, slumberous gaze. She didn't want him to see—or sense—the hot ache that was building in the pit of her stomach. All from a mere dance.

  "Your arousal arouses me," he admitted, almost as if he resented the fact, then proved it by adding, "I do not want to be aroused by you. I need to get back to my time. I need to help my brother. I need no complications."

  "And I would be a complication?"

  "Lady, you could be the biggest complication of my entire life."

  "Even more than your wife?"

  He exhaled with a dismissive sound. "My wife was never a complication. She was an arrangement. Never, ever, did she affect me as you do. Not she or any other woman."

  "Bet you say that to all the wenches."

  "Not even when I am seducing them into the bed sport. Well, there was that one wench in Cordoba—"

  Maggie punched him lightly on the shoulder. He laughed softly, a low, masculine sound, barely more than a growl. She loved his laugh. He did it so rarely.

  "What are you thinking?" he asked.

  She laughed then. "Hey, that's supposed to be my line."

  "I can scarce believe I am about to ask you this question. I swore, after Inga's death, that I had had enough of women... except for the occasional coupling, that is." He inhaled deeply, as if for courage. "I do not suppose that you would consider coming with me when I go?" he inquired tentatively.

  "To the tenth century?"

  "Yea, to my time and country."

  How could she take such a proposal seriously? "On the back of a killer whale?"

  "God, I hope not." Then he thought of something else. "On the other hand, if we were both bare-arsed naked..."

  "You are impossible." She shook her head and smiled up at him. "No, I would not consider going with you. Keep in mind, I have two daughters who need me here."

  The somber expression that immediately blanketed his face told her loud and clear that he wouldn't be bringing up time travel with her again... because he didn't want a reminder of her twin girls.

  They continued their dance in silence then, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her face resting against his chest. It was a beautiful moment... a perfect ending to a perfect day.

  Why, then, did Maggie feel like crying?

  The next day Joe disappeared, without warning, from the Rainbow hospital. His sword was missing, too.

  Police were called and an APB put out with his description, to no avail. Other patients were questioned. He'd told no one of his plans, not even Steve, who was desolate without his new friend, especially with all the media publicity he'd reluctantly attracted as a result of the report at the Moving Wall. Area hospitals reported no injured Norsemen of his size in their emergency rooms. Maggie even searched the Orcaland site on several ocasions. Nothing.

  Was he lost?

  Had he died? Perhaps he had swum out into the bay, hoping to connect with his special killer whale, and drowned instead.

  A heavy grief settled over Maggie, and over the hospital wing where Joe had touched so many people. Suzy and Beth were devastated that they'd lost the man they had chosen as a father before they'd actually met him. She had talked to Harry about it, and neither of them could figure out what there was about this man that had affected them all so strongly.

  So it was that one week passed, then a second, finally three weeks, with no sign of the mysterious man who had shown up in their lives suddenly, and just as suddenly disappeared.

  Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. Maggie hated negativity, but she couldn't find much to be thankful for, not with Joe missing.

  Where was Joe spending his nights? Was he cold? Was he hungry? Was he alone?

  That night Maggie began a brand-
new practice... one she would never admit to anyone, not even her daughters. She was wishing on a star, and her refrain was always the same.

  "Come home, Joe."

  At seven o'clock that night, there was a loud pounding at the front door. Rita jumped from her favorite perch on the window seat of the front bay window, where she had been snoozing. With a long mewling "Meeooow," she stretched and ambled toward the entryway. More persistent knocking followed.

  Maggie assumed it was Suzy and Beth coming home from church choir practice. Even though November wasn't over, rehearsals for the annual Christmas concert were already in full swing.

  But why hadn't they used their keys to open the door? Ha! Silly question. As usual, their arms were probably too full of the backpacks and whatnot that young girls felt the need to cart everywhere they went.

  She swung the door wide. "Just in time. Dinner's about ready. We're having your fav—"

  It wasn't her daughters. It was Joe. And, even through the light drizzle of rain, she could see that he looked awful.

  She should have been angry that he'd left the hospital without notice, and had been missing for three long weeks.

  She should have slammed the door in his face for breaking his therapy contract, thus barring him from returning to the clinic as a patient.

  She should have been dismayed that he'd come to her home—a no-no for mental patients and their psychologists.

  Instead she opened her arms wide and hugged him tightly. She was just so glad to see him again... to know he was safe.

  He hugged her back just as fiercely. For several long moments they stood silently on her front doorstep, locked in the tight embrace, regardless of Rita hissing behind them, and a curious neighbor, Mrs. Watkins, walking her Pekingese along the front sidewalk.

  Finally she drew back and studied his haggard, whiskered face with concern. He must not have shaved since he'd left the hospital. His usually lustrous hair, which he normally tied back into a queue at his neck, was wild and matted, barely recognizable as being a pale blond color. He wore the same clothing he'd left with, blue jeans and a long-sleeved denim shirt, both of which were dirty and torn in places. Most ominous was the lethal sword that he wore in a scabbard attached to the wide leather belt at his waist. Had he used that sword on anyone or anything?

  "Come in," she ordered, as she realized he was shivering.

  He hesitated. "Are you alone?"

  She cocked her head in question. Apparently, despite his need for care, he was reluctant to enter her house unless she was alone. Then she understood. Her daughters—her twin daughters—that was whom he wanted to avoid. "I'm alone."

  His body relaxed visibly, and he stepped inside. There was a loud hissing noise, and a white ball of fur hurled itself toward Joe. Maggie's forehead creased with puzzlement and her hands went out instinctively to protect Joe. Rita wasn't usually hostile. He put an arm over his face to defend himself, but Rita had already attached her front claws to his shirt and her back claws to the lower part of his anatomy. Her tail thickened, her body stiffened, and her fur stood on end. She even began to shed fur like mad.

  "Don't move," Maggie cautioned Joe as she began to gently extricate Rita's claws.

  "Move?" Joe choked out. "I can scarce breathe for the proximity of the beast's talons to my male parts. Be careful, lest you change my sex in a trice."

  She laughed as she lifted Rita away; whispered a firm rebuke in her cat's face, which Maggie could swear wore a smirk, then scooted her away.

  "What kind of wild creature was that?" he grumbled as she closed the door and led him toward her den. Rita followed after them, despite his frown. "Perchance it needs a taste of my sword, Bloodletter." He patted the weapon at his side."

  "A cat," she answered. "Our pet cat, Rita. And don't you dare pull out that sword, or hurt Rita. She was only being protective of me."

  "That is a cat?" The glower he gave the feline said it all. "Cats are pampered pets in the Eastern harems, but never have I seen a cat so fat. Are you sure it's not a tiger... a white tiger? I have heard of such, though they are rare."

  Rita hissed her opinion of his derogatory remark. "No, she's just a cat... our own little kitty cat."

  He made a harrumphing sound at the word little. "You must have monster mice in this land to feed one that size."

  The idea of Rita being a mouser was so preposterous that it didn't even warrant correcting. Maggie had obtained Rita as a kitten from a shelter more than ten years ago, and the animal had been spoiled from the get-go. Rita in the wild would be as much an anomaly as... well, Joe in a civilized setting.

  "I do not like cats," he declared, his upper lip curled with distaste.

  Oh, so that's the reason for Rita's aggression. Rita meowed something that probably translated to, I do not like you, either. Then she scurried away, no doubt fearing that her gourmet cat food and favorite table scraps would be cut off in favor of rodent fare.

  But Joe had more important things to deal with than a cat. Already his mind had moved beyond the pesky feline. He sank down onto the big, upholstered sofa, then put his face in his hands. Concerned, she sat down beside him and put a hand on his arm.

  "Joe, what's wrong?"

  "Everything."

  "Where have you been?"

  "Everywhere."

  "Could you be a little more specific?"

  He glanced up and smiled at her. It was such a sad smile, barely curving his lips, and never reaching his stormy gray eyes. "For three sennights, I have wandered the woods and inlets of Gal-vast-town Bay, trying to locate Thora, or my ship. 'Twas all for naught."

  "Where have you been staying?"

  "Outdoors," he answered, as if it were nothing to live and sleep outdoors. The weather was fair for November in Texas, but the nights were decidedly cool.

  "Where did you eat? What did you eat?"

  Her question seemed to surprise him. "Whatever was available."

  She was still confused. He had no money that she knew of. So restaurants were out of the question. Oh, no! He didn't steal food, did he?

  He must have sensed her thoughts. "Tsktsk, Mag-he. I am no thief. Nay, I snared rabbits and caught fish and cooked them over an open fire. Once, I even ate a snake. 'Twas tougher than shoe leather, but filling."

  A snake? She could barely keep herself from gagging. "Why didn't you just come back to the hospital?"

  "I could not. Time was of the essence, with winter approaching on the north seas. Besides, I knew that I would no longer be welcome at the Rainbow hospitium once I broke the contract."

  "And now what?"

  He shrugged. "I am not sure. Well, one thing I am certain of is that I am trapped in this world till springtime. Even if I were able to locate Thora now, I misdoubt that longship travel on the Iceland route to Norway would be a wise choice."

  "But..." Maggie started to ask where he would stay, but decided she had more immediate concerns. "Listen, you've got to get out of those damp clothes and take a shower.

  "Are you implying that I am malodorous?"

  "Let's just say; Old Spice won't be asking you to do any commercials. I assume they had no deodorants where you were."

  "Deodorants? Hah! I was lucky to be able to wash up in the bay with sand and water."

  "You'll be lucky if you haven't caught pneumonia."

  "New-mown-ya? The only thing I caught in that cold water was seaweed, puny pan fish, and one flounder."

  She laughed. She was just so glad to have him back. "While you're shaving and cleaning up, I'll throw your stuff in the washing machine. You look famished. By the time you're through in the bathroom, and have eaten some dinner, the clothes should be dry."

  He lifted his eyebrows with interest. "You want me to disrobe? Right now? In front of you?"

  "No, Mr. One-track Mind. You can throw your dirty clothes outside the bathroom. It's nice to see you have a sense of humor about this, though."

  "I was not jesting." His face was already serious, but now it turned e
ven more serious as he regarded her with an uncertain expression on his face. He was usually so confident. "Was I wrong to come here?"

  She hardly hesitated at all. "No, I'm glad you came. But how did you find my house?"

  "Hattie gave me directions."

  "Hattie?"

  "Hattie Lawrence."

  Warning bells started clanging inside Maggie's already aching head. "The daughter of Rainbow Hospital's owner?"

  "Yea, the selfsame one."

  "But... how... when... I don't understand."

  "She slipped me a card with her name and telephone number that day they visited the hospital. She said, 'Call me sometime, sugar.' So I did."

  Oh, my God! Hattie hit on a patient at the clinic. Hah. Is that any worse than me?

  "I called her tonight and said that I was released from the hospital. A small mistruth," he admitted unabashedly. "I told her I was in a phone booth with no book of numbers and could she please look up your address for me. She was very nice."

  I'll bet she was. "How did you make a phone call without any money?"

  "Oh, I used a phone card."

  Maggie was getting a splitting headache the size of Joe's outrageous story. "You have a phone card?"

  "Nay. John Lennon lent me his."

  "I hate to ask this, but where did you meet John Lennon? Don't tell me he came riding in on a killer whale, too." Or in a yellow submarine, she thought.

  "Of course not." He gave her an impatient frown that said she was being silly. "John Lennon is a homeless person who lives near the mission flophouse... leastways, that is what he called it. All he asked in return for my use of the phone card was for me to give peace a chance. Is that not an odd thing to say?"

  "A homeless person with a phone card? And his name is John Lennon?"

  "'Tis what I said, is it not?" he snapped churlishly. "And, by the by, once I get some coins, I would like to go back and thank him for his services. Mayhap you could even invite John to live at Rainbow Hospital. He thinks he is a beetle, you know. And since you already have Steve the seal and Chuck, who thinks he is every animal in the land, depending on the day of the week, why not a bug as well?" He smiled brightly at her, as if he'd made a brilliant suggestion.