by Sandra Hill
“Arse-what?”
“Not ass, ASVAB. It’s a multiple aptitude test.”
“Well, that explains it.”
Torolf did the swearing-under-his-breath exercise. “Presumably no study is required for that test, but still Geek thinks you need to study to the test. Once that’s over, you should be able to handle the physical requirements of the PST.”
“Another test!” He groaned.
“You’ll need to be able to swim five hundred yards in less than twelve and a half minutes.”
“I was born swimming.”
“Do forty-two push-ups in under two minutes followed by a two-minute rest. Then fifty sit-ups in under two minutes, followed by a two-minute rest. Then six pull-ups, followed by a ten-minute rest. Then run one and a half miles in boots and long pants in less than eleven and a half minutes.”
Thorfinn could feel his face heat up. “What a lot of foolishness!”
“Gotta do it, buddy.”
“If you can do it, I can do it.”
Torolf did the eye-rolling exercise again. “And you better cut that damn hair. Hilda says it’s clogging the drains after you take a shower.”
“I will cut my damn hair when I start SEALs. Not before. And Hilda should talk! Her hair is longer than mine. Really, Torolf, how could you have married such a shrew?” How a man of seeming intelligence like Torolf could have bound himself to a waspish female like Hilda was beyond Thorfinn’s understanding.
“You provoke her. Besides, if you want a shrew, that would be Commander MacLean’s wife, Madrene. My sister. Hilda is nowhere near as bad as Madrene. We like to say she drove my father out of the Norselands with her nagging.”
“On that I must agree. Still, can you not tame your wife better? She tortures me with her black looks of condemnation, and her sharp tongue, and her overall annoying presence.”
“You torture her right back.”
“That is neither here nor there.”
“I love her.”
“Pffff! I wish you joy of her.”
“Have you learned nothing about women’s lib in your tutoring sessions?”
Turning in his chair, Thorfinn yelled through the open doorway to Hilda, who was feeding Styrr in the scullery. “Didst wash my codpiece?” he inquired arrogantly, just to watch her back go stiff and to make a point with Torolf.
Torolf choked on his beer, and Thorfinn had to clap him on the back, hard, ’til he calmed down.
Meanwhile, Thorfinn saw Hilda bare her teeth at him, pausing in the midst of ladling pea soup out for three-year-old Styrr, who was wearing as much of his food as he ate. And who could blame him? The mushy green concoction resembled baby shit. In truth, he tried not to look at Styrr very often or be around him; he reminded Thorfinn too much of his own lost son, whom he had never got to see at this age.
“Your jock strap, your jockey briefs, your tunic, your braies, and every other blessed item of your clothing are in the washing machine, you lazy lout,” Hilda yelled back at him. “I still do not understand why you cannot wash them yourself.”
Jabber, jabber, jabber. “I do not know how.”
“You do not want to know how.”
Jabber, jabber, jabber. “There is that. ’Tis women’s work.” He smiled at her.
She did not smile back. In fact, she was muttering something about half-brained, pain-in-the-arse, full-of-themselves men.
“See,” he told Torolf, “that is how you put a woman in her place.”
Slut raised her head and growled at him.
Torolf just shook his head as if they were both lackwitted, he and the dog.
When lunkheads pound away . . .
“Get rid of him.”
That was Hilda’s message to her husband when she crawled into bed that night after finally getting a fussy Styrr to sleep.
“I’m trying, sweetling,” he said, as he raised the sheet and opened his arms to her.
She raised her eyebrows at his nude body, then snuggled up against him, resting her face on his chest. He kissed the top of her head and tugged her closer.
“I just wish he would have stayed at Blue Dragon.”
“Hah! Two days at the vineyard, and even my father could not put up with him. He offended every female in the region, and the men did not appreciate him ordering them around. As if he knows anything about growing grapes!”
“Well, I forewarn you, husband. I am leaving two days hence for Hog Heaven. I must needs take care of some matters at the center.” Hog Heaven was the unlikely name for a motorcycle/RV park where Torolf owned a trailer. It had been where he and Hilda had fallen in love, and it was where Hilda had established a sanctuary for abused women, aptly called The Sanctuary. It was named after another sanctuary she had run years ago in the Norselands.
“How long will you be gone?”
“It could be two days, or more. I’ll tell you this, I am not taking the lunkhead with me.”
Torolf laughed. “Just so you’re back by next Monday. We go boots up on the next mission then.”
Hilda remained silent for a few moments, trying to stifle her fears. She knew it was Torolf’s work, that each of his missions was dangerous. She also knew that one of these times he might not come back.
He kissed the top of her head again, sensing her dismay. “We should be tolerant of Finn. You and I both know what a shock it is to finally accept time travel. Even after all these years, since I was sixteen, I can’t truly believe it happens. But more than that, Finn has had a hard time of it, with his wife leaving him and taking his baby.”
Hilda nodded. “I can understand his wife leaving him. Any woman would. But the baby . . . even I can see how he grieves for the lost child. And, truth to tell, half the time methinks the lunkhead says outrageous things just to get a rise out of me.”
“A dry sense of humor?”
She shrugged.
“Maybe we could find a woman for him,” Torolf suggested.
Hilda raised her head to stare at him with astonishment.
“Maybe not,” he said with a laugh. But then he tugged her down for a real kiss, mouth to mouth, arousing. “By the gods, it’s hot in here.”
“What? The air conditioner is on, and you’re nude.” At his grin, she added, “Oh.” And lifted her nightshirt over her head, exposing her body, which was also nude.
“Oh, dearling,” he whispered and began to make love to her in the heated fashion she liked most. When he had aroused her to a fever pitch, and himself, as well, he began the long, hard strokes that would lead to their mutual peaking.
But a loud pounding erupted on the wall behind the headboard of the bed, and a male voice shouted, “The lunkhead can hear you.”
Torolf looked at her in the dark and repeated her earlier comment back at her: “Get rid of him.”
Like father, like son . . .
Mike was suspended. From preschool!
Lydia sat on the beach with her son that weekend and tried to explain why it was inappropriate to punch the lights out of a little boy, a fellow classmate, who’d made the mistake of saying Navy SEALs were buttheads. Apparently, Joey’s father was a marine.
“Fighting is not permitted, Mike.”
“Never?”
“Never.” She didn’t entirely believe that, but she wasn’t about to attempt an explanation of the exceptions to a four-year-old boy.
“Betcha my dad would say it was okay.” His chin went mulish, just like Dave’s had when he’d given in to his stubborn streak. In fact, he was a miniature version of Dave with his short hair and gray eyes. “Sometimes,” he added.
Lydia’s heart about broke when Mike mentioned Dave. She knew he missed having a dad, and she worried that the hole in his life would only get bigger the older he got.
She squeezed his shoulder, and they both watched the surfers, who were out in force this morning. It was a beautiful day, it was a beautiful beach, and she was fortunate that Dave’s insurance had paid off the mortgage of the house so she could stay h
ere. Although the house was modest, any waterfront property was worth a mint . . . way out of her price range.
“How can I let you go to Nana and PopPop’s farm once school lets out next week? I need to be able to trust you, Mike. No more fighting.”
“Moooooom! I hafta go. PopPop said I kin ride a horse this year.”
Her parents, Mary and Travis Hartley, owned a dairy farm in Minnesota, called Mill Pond Farm, where they also raised some chickens, turkeys, and goats, and boarded a half-dozen horses. Dave’s parents, Julie and Herb Denton, raised beef cattle nearby on Green Meadows Farm. Usually, they took turns with Mike, one week at each place with get-togethers in between. A kid paradise!
“A pony,” she corrected.
“That’s what I said. Pleeaaaasssse!”
She knew she should punish him, but withholding this much-awaited trip would be punishment for the grandparents as well as for Mike. “Okay, if you behave, you can go, but there will be no TV for the next seven days, and that includes DVDs.”
He started to argue, then stopped himself. Smart kid! Instead, he jumped up and hollered, “Last one in is a loser!” He made an L-shape on his forehead with a thumb and forefinger.
“You’re on.” She jumped up and raced after him. Of course, he won, having had a head start.
Her heart swelled with pride as he dove into an oncoming wave and swam to the smooth waters on the other side of the breakers. Mike had taken to the water practically since he could walk. Like a seal.
Like his father.
In that moment, Lydia decided to stop looking for a replacement for Dave. There was none.
But then she recalled a conversation she and Dave had had one time after they’d made love, knowing he was leaving on a mission the next day. He’d told her that if something ever happened to him, he wanted her to find someone else. When she’d avowed that he would be the only one for her, he had growled and promised, “Well, then, I would just have to send someone for you.”
“From beyond the grave?” She had laughed.
The eeriest premonition swept over her then, a premonition that something was about to happen . . . something related to Dave.
Curb your enthusiasm . . .
“Now, remember what I said. Keep your mouth shut.”
Thorfinn, who was sitting in Torolf’s solar sharpening his sword, raised his head and glared at his cousin with indignation. “Why should I keep my mouth shut?”
“Because every time you open it, I get in trouble. Listen, Hilda’s stuck at her women’s shelter at Hog Heaven—”
What a country! Imagine naming a village Hog Heaven! And there are not even any actual pigs there. “Hilda takes exception to every blessed thing I do. The harpy is always accusing me of making a mess. Tell me true, Torolf, what is so wrong with cutting my toenails in her scullery with a paring knife?”
Torolf shook his head at him, something he did overmuch, and continued, “I don’t feel like cooking. And, no, we are not ordering pizza again, either.”
“We could go to that burn-your-tongue place.”
“We’re not going to Hot Wings Palace, either. We’re going down to the Wet and Wild for dinner, some beers, and a little friendly conversation. Try to behave yourself.”
“Dost insult me, Torolf? Thor’s Teeth, you do! I am not a boyling to be chastised so.”
“Sometimes you act like one.”
“And what will you do if I misbehave? Tie me to a bed again?”
Torolf’s cheeks filled with color. “I only did that for one day and that’s because you were going off half-cocked. ”
“You did it for two days,” he corrected, “and that does not count what you did on the ground in Baghdad to get me in that flying bird.” He thought a moment. “Did you just tell me I have half a cock? Another insult?”
Torolf laughed. “That’s just an expression that means you were out of control. Only the gods . . . or God . . . knows where you would have run off to when you learned where you were if I hadn’t restrained you.”
“Well, at least then you would not have to babysit me.”
“Are you ever going to forgive me for that remark?”
“I want to go home . . . back to Norstead.”
“It’s out of my hands, buddy.”
“I do not like it here.”
“I don’t see why not. Other than Steven, you have no compelling reason to go back. Your brother will take care of any loose ends at Norstead.”
“That is not for you to decide.”
“Think about all the modern marvels. Cars, airplanes, motor boats, electricity, running water, indoor plumbing, guns, Wal-Mart.”
Thorfinn waved a hand dismissively. “All well and good, but I am lost here. I have no place.”
“I thought you were resigned to joining the military, whether you make SEALs or not.”
“Of course I am resigned to fighting. What else would I do?”
“I’m losing patience with you, Finn. You’re not the first person who has time-traveled and you probably won’t be the last. There are thirteen in my family alone, including my brothers and sisters and two uncles. Then Britta and Hilda, of course. And a few of my SEAL buddies that you met back there.”
“Are you sure this is not just some other world created by the gods . . . Loki, the jester god, mayhap?”
His cousin shook his head. “It takes time. For some, it takes longer than for others to accept what has happened, but you will. Eventually. That’s why we’ve kept you pretty much in seclusion so you can learn the skills to blend in here.”
“But how does this . . . um, time travel happen . . . and why?”
“I don’t think there’s any logical explanation. Not today. Maybe sometime in the future. We’ve all decided it’s just a miracle performed by God, possibly in cooperation with the Norse gods.”
“Huh?”
Torolf punched him in the upper arm. “Exactly. So, are we on tonight for the Wet and Wild?”
“Will there be women there?”
“Yes. Why?”
“My enthusiasm is on the rise.” And I am bloody damned tired of pleasuring myself.
“Your enthusiasm? Oh, shit! That’s what my brother Ragnor used to say when—”
“Yea, the male sap is running.” And running and running. “Mayhap I can find an equally enthusiastic wench to tup. I have not engaged in a good swiving in more than six months.” I should have taken a woman when I had a chance back in Baghdad.
Torolf groaned and put his face in his hands.
His cousin did that betimes when Thorfinn said something exceedingly wise. Leastways, that was his opinion.
So he continued, “Especially since you told me about birthing control in this country. Praise the gods, I do not have to fear being wedlocked to some woman just because we shared the bed furs.” Someone like Hilda, gods forbid.
“I don’t think there’s anything to fear in that regard. Modern women are not going to jump with joy at the prospect of being wedlocked with you.”
“Why do you say that? I am handsome, or so women have said. I have much wealth . . . if my arm rings and sword are worth what you say they are. And I have talents.”
“Talents?” Torolf choked out.
“For bedplay, of course.”
“Mercy!”
“Best I go change into my tunic and braies if we are going out.”
“No, no, no. You look just fine in jeans and a T-shirt, but, please, could you put your hair in a ponytail or something? Those war braids and crystal beads attract too much attention. And do not even think of bringing that frickin’ sword with you.”
“All these orders . . . you exceed yourself, cousin.”
“Yeah, well, somebody has to put you straight. Another thing, you walk in the wrong neighborhood and some two-bit mugger is gonna kill you for those gold armbands alone. Do you have any idea how much they’re worth?”
“How much?”
“A half a mil each, give or take a hundred thou
sand or two.”
“Is that a great deal of coin?”
“That is a hell of a lot of coin. You could buy a small country.”
“Why would I want to buy a small country?”
“Aaarrgh! Would you just make an effort to fit in?”
“Torolf, what has happened to you? Have you no shame in denying your Vikinghood?”
“Vikinghood? That’s a good one. No, I’m not ashamed of my heritage, but I don’t have to shout it out.”
“Then why do you not own even one longship?”
He did that shaking his head exercise at him again. Then he exhaled with a whoosh. “Here’s the deal, Finn. I’ll take you out tomorrow and give you another driving lesson if you promise not to call any woman a wench tonight, or ask her if she wants to be tupped, or brag about your . . . um, talents.”
Thorfinn thought, but only for a moment. In truth, he got the better of the bargain, in his opinion, since he harbored a fascination with Torolf’s shiny black jape.
A woman? Or a shiny, black, horseless cart which moved at exciting speeds?
No contest!
"’Tis a deal.”
Chapter 4
Hooking up was a little like fishing . . . for men . . .
“The Wet and Wild? Oh, no, I don’t think so,” Lydia protested.
She and Kirstin Magnusson had just finished dinner in a small Coronado cafe and were sipping their second glasses of wine when Kirstin suggested they wind down their evening at the hangout, which catered to Navy guys and gals from the base, including SEALs.
“Why not?”
“It’s a singles bar, isn’t it?”
“Not really. A lot of singles hang out there, but married folks stop off after a billet, too. They serve food, and there’s a band on weekends.”
“I’ve already told you about my bad dating experiences. I don’t need to add a military man to the sad mix. Besides, I’ve given up on dating.”
“Hey, we’ve all had dating nightmares. That doesn’t mean you give up. I told you about the guy with the penis piercings. And the jerk who expected me to pay for our dates . . . for both of us. And the one who talked about his yacht and it turned out to be a bass boat. Worst of all was the guy who kept smirking at me and saying, ‘Who’s your daddy?’ I mean, Toby Keith can get away with that crap, but a stockbroker in a bow tie? I don’t think so!”
