by Sandra Hill
“Of course we did, but we were married.”
“Ah.”
“What does that mean?”
“You are withdrawing your favors to gain a marriage proposal.”
“I am not!”
“I think I care for you, Lydia, but marriage . . . I vowed never to wed again. Besides, my time will be consumed soon with SEAL training.”
“You think you care for me? That’s big of you.”
“Sarcasm ill suits you, Lydia. I will speak to your father, and all will be well.”
“If you do, I’ll never speak to you again.” At the contemplative expression on his face, she added, “And I won’t have sex with you, either.”
“You did in the barn.”
“That was a lapse in judgment.”
“Spectacular good judgment, if you ask me.”
“Just out of curiosity, since marriage is out of the question, what exactly would you be telling my father?”
“That we are going to live together and raise Mike, as good as wed without the ceremony.”
“Without marriage?”
He nodded slowly.
“Oh, that’ll go over great.”
“Assuming I am accepted into the teams, my BUD/S training would not start ’til September, then last for many months. I intend to spend every minute of that time getting to know my son. That means living in the same keep. With or without you.”
Finn’s insistence that Mike was his biological son continued to distress her. She could see his wanting to be close to Mike because he reminded him of his own son. She was even able to concede the time-travel stuff as one of those God-made miracle thingees. But Mike could not be Finn’s actual son. He just couldn’t be.
Unless . . .
Unless he is Dave inside that Viking body.
Which he is not.
Of course not.
But if there could be the miracle of time travel, why not the miracle of reincarnation?
And then he dares to say he thinks he cares for me. Not love. Just caring. And then only a maybe. And based on that flimsy offering he expects me to open my home . . . and my legs . . . to him. We shall see about that.
“You have no rights, Finn.”
“I have every right. Dare to defy me on this, and you will find how strong-willed a Viking can be. And that is what I will tell your father. I will be living with his daughter henceforth.”
“You have a thicker skull than I thought if you think any red-blooded American dad would agree to that, without marriage.”
“Marriage, again!” He snorted his disgust. “I will not be coerced.”
“Neither will I be, big boy.”
A squeal of laughter came from upstairs, and she realized that Mike must have finished his bath. He always protested taking a bath, but it practically took a bulldozer to get him out. “I need to go read to Mike and put him to bed.” She turned stiffly for the stairs.
“I will come with you. But do not think this conversation is over.” Under his breath he added something that sounded like, “Nor is the bedsport.”
Pulling on a father’s heartstrings . . .
“Come and sit with us while Mommy reads us a story.” Mike patted the thin strip of mattress available.
Lydia and Mike were sitting on his bed, propped against two pillows each, a pile of children’s books betwixt them. He sat on a rocking chair by the window, just watching.
“I would never fit,” Thorfinn said with a laugh.
“I can sit on your lap,” Mike offered. "C’mon. Mommy reads real good.”
So it was that Thorfinn found himself sitting on the small bed, his shoulder and thigh rubbing against Lydia’s rigid shoulder and thigh. She was angry with him, though he could not fathom why. Mike cuddled on Finn’s lap, wearing a sleeping garment adorned with images of purple dragons. The boy’s skin smelled of mint and of Miklof as he had been soon after his birth.
Thorfinn blinked several times, fighting the strong emotions which nigh overwhelmed him. This is my life as it should have been. Then, girding his loins with resolve, he added, This is my life as it WILL be.
Sensing his distress, Lydia squeezed his hand, then immediately dropped it, recalling that she was supposed to be angry.
Inroads, he thought.
Then she began to read, “Once upon a time, there was a grizzly bear named Pete . . .”
She read them three stories, which Thorfinn had to admit enthralled him, as well as his son. When she finished the last one, The Viking Who Cried, Thorfinn said, “That saga is well and good, but not entirely true. First off, Vikings do not wear horned helmets. How ridiculous! And little ones are closely guarded by their mothers. Ne’er have I heard of a boyling who went a-Viking.”
“Do you know any Viking stories?” Mike craned his neck to peer up at him.
Thorfinn could not help himself. He gave the boy a hug and a quick kiss on the top of his head.
“Mayhap I can think of one. Well, this is a real story. It is about your great-grandfather’s brother . . . I mean, my grandfather’s brother, King Olaf.”
“Your grandfather was a king?” Mike’s eyes were wide with wonder.
“Nay, my grandfather’s brother. In any case, Olaf and my grandfather Eric developed a most wonderful talent, which has been passed on to every male in our family.” He proceeded to tell him how they could catch a spear aimed at them by an enemy and, by a deft flick of the fingers, turn it and lob it back at the villain. “It would be comparable to modern soldiers turning bombs or bullets off their targets and sending them back to the enemy, all in a split second. Like this . . .” He picked up a pencil from the bedside table, twirling it in his fingers and tossing it at the opposite wall.
“Wow!” Mike exclaimed.
“My mother is going to kill you if you put pencil marks on her wallpaper.”
He chucked her chin playfully.
She did not return his smile.
Mayhap those inroads are rockier than I anticipated.
“Can you show me how?” Mike wanted to know.
Thorfinn nodded. “On the morrow.”
“But we doan have no spears here.” Mike pulled a long face, a ploy of children through the ages.
“We will use broom and rake handles.”
“I don’t know . . .” Lydia started to say.
“Shhh,” he said, putting a forefinger to her lips. “It will be safe. Besides, it is a sight to behold watching my three uncles at the game.”
Lydia tried to nip at his finger, but he quickly removed it.
“Okay, kiddo.” Lydia rumpled Mike’s hair, picked up the book, then slid off the bed, standing. “Time for bed.”
“One more book, please.”
She shook her head. “That’s what you said last time. Besides, tomorrow’s going to be a long day. You’ll be seeing Grandma and Grandpa Denton.”
He smiled. “Betcha they give me a present.”
“I have a gift for you back at your home,” Thorfinn told him.
“Goody. What is it?”
“A surprise.”
As Lydia tucked Mike in, she said to Thorfinn, “I saw your gift for Mike. I also saw the amber. Did you buy that for . . . someone?”
He grinned. “Yea. Someone.”
“It has a star in the center, did you know that?”
He frowned. “Yea. How does that signify?”
“I used to collect anything with stars. Star tree ornaments. Star wind chimes. Star canisters and pot holders. And every time Dave went on a mission, he would bring me a gift back. Always with stars on it somewhere.” She paused. “Was there any special reason why you bought that amber?”
His first reaction was to rail at yet another reminder of her dead husband. But then he began to wonder if there might actually be some connection. A far-fetched idea, that, but worth noting. So he just nodded. “I saw it in a merchant’s display, and it drew me.” He shrugged.
Mike said his prayers, blessing everyone in the whole bl
oody world, Thorfinn included. But not to get a big head, he had to note that Mike also blessed the cows and chickens.
Lydia turned off the light, leaving on only a dim “night light,” and bent over the bed to kiss Mike, giving Thorfinn a nice view of her curved arse in tight den-ham braies. “Sweet dreams, pumpkin.”
“You, too, Mommy.”
About to straighten up, Lydia noticed the direction of his stare and snorted her disgust.
Then Mike opened his arms to Thorfinn.
It was Thorfinn then who bent over the bed, and he did not mind at all if she ogled his arse. He brushed his lips across the boy’s smooth cheek, unprepared for Mike’s grabbing him about the neck and pulling him closer. Into his ear, he whispered, “I said a secret prayer t’night.”
“What was that, little one?”
“I prayed fer you ta be my dad.”
Chapter 17
And then she saw stars . . .
It was with much trepidation that Lydia drove up the lane to Green Meadows Farm with Finn, Magnus, and Mike. Torolf, Geek, Slick, and Sly went on to town, where everyone would meet up at noon with the FBI and local law enforcement. She and Dave’s parents would also be meeting with town officials this afternoon to discuss their role in the memorial service on Saturday. JAM had stayed behind with three of Magnus’s sons to protect her parents and their property.
Magnus was already ooohing and aaahing over the farm, just as he had back at Mill Pond Farm, but it was Finn she was most concerned about. She was still irritated with him that he would assume she would be willing to live with him without love or commitment. But what worried her now was what Dave’s parents’ reaction to him would be.
Mike was the first one out of the vehicle, and he ran up to give big hugs to Grandma and Grandpa, immediately followed by, “Where’s my present?” The scamp rushed inside the house to search.
Lydia hugged Julie and Herb warmly, too. They’d always seemed like second parents to her. Then she introduced Magnus, saying, “Magnus has farming in his blood. You won’t mind if he wanders around, will you?”
“No problem,” Herb said. “We’ve got so many men protecting us here, you’ll probably be tripping over them.”
“Mayhap we can rebuild your barn whilst we’re here,” Magnus offered blithely, as if that were a little thing.
But any response by a gaping Herb was halted when he heard his wife gasp. Then he gasped, too, as Finn came from the other side of the vehicle, where he had been gathering some supplies Lydia’s mother had sent over, including one of her red velvet cakes. She must have gotten up at dawn to make it.
Finn had been bent over picking up the boxes, and when he stood, they saw his eyes. It was understandable why the first thing out of Julie’s lips was, “Dave! Oh, my God! It’s Dave.”
Finn rolled his eyes, muttered, “Dave again,” then walked over and placed the box on the porch before turning to them, hand outstretched. “Greetings! My name is Thorfinn Haraldsson.”
“But . . .” Julie was frowning with confusion.
“Who the hell are you?” Herb asked, but not unkindly.
“I told you. I am—”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” Herb, who was the same height as Finn but wire thin, grabbed the Viking and gave him a big bear hug, not letting go.
Finn cast Lydia a pleading look over Herb’s shoulder, not knowing what to do without offending the older man.
“Julie, come give . . . um, this big boy here a welcome, ” Herb said to his wife in some pointed way.
Lydia understood. It was code, something they always said every time Dave had come home. “Our big boy is home now, honey. All is good.”
Well, all was not good. And she couldn’t let this go on.
“Herb, Julie, I need to talk to you.”
Reluctantly, Julie let go of Finn. Tears of joy were streaming down her face.
Just then, Cage came around the side of the house. He was one of the guys assigned to protect the Dentons.
“Hey, darlin’,” he said, coming up and giving Lydia a brotherly peck on the cheek.
Hearing a low growl, he let his arm remain around her shoulders and turned to Finn, grinning. “Hey, Haraldsson! How’s it goin’?”
“Remove. Thy. Arm,” Finn said.
Herb and Julie watched the interchange with puzzled eyes.
Lydia stepped between the one grinning and the other glowering man. “Cage, would you mind going inside to entertain Mike for a little while. Finn and I have something to discuss with Herb and Julie.”
Going up onto the porch, which wrapped around three sides of the old Victorian farmhouse, Herb and Julie sat on two rockers, while she sat beside Finn on the swing. He tried to hold her hand, but she shrugged him off. He was being a horse’s ass, in more ways than one.
“Let me start from the beginning,” she said.
But was interrupted by the wild barking of a dog. A huge furry mass, as big as a small horse, came barreling around the corner of the house, up the steps, then launched itself at Finn. With front paws on his chest, he was barking and licking his face at the same time.
It was Whiskey, their aged German Shepherd. Dave’s dog before he left home.
Everyone was stunned at the implication.
Once Finn had petted the dog and settled him at his feet like a rug that would not budge, Lydia started again, “I know how it must look, but Finn is not Dave. No, don’t interrupt ’til I finish. There’s a secret that I know Finn and his family would rather I not divulge, but you have to be told so that you can understand.” She glanced to Finn for his permission.
He hesitated, then nodded.
They listened to her, but their eyes were on Finn, who, despite all odds, seemed like Dave to them.
“He is not Dave,” she repeated for emphasis. Then she proceeded to tell them the whole story, minus the sex. It took her more than fifteen minutes, even without interruptions. Herb and Julie were too stunned and disbelieving at her incredible story to voice any questions . . . yet.
“Time travel? Are you crazy, Lydia?” her father-in-law asked.
“Sometimes I think so.”
“And all these other people . . . Magnus, his family . . . they all believe this crap?”
“Not only believe it, they have experienced it.” Finn spoke up for the first time.
“It’s impossible,” her mother-in-law said, but there was hesitancy in her voice.
“Do you really think there’s such a thing as time travel?” Herb continued to prod her.
“Well . . .” She wet her lips, dry after talking so much. “I can only say what Finn and the others say. It must be a miracle. Not some phenomenon that can be explained by science, but something God deigned to happen.”
“Finn, what do you think?”
He shrugged. “Strange things happen in this world, things that we cannot understand. We can only live with the consequences.”
“And you’re going to be a SEAL?” Julie was blinking away another bout of tears.
Lydia hated piling this on them when they already had enough on their plates with the barn burning and a terrorist lurking out there, somewhere.
“Hopefully,” Finn answered.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to be a farmer?” Herb asked.
And Lydia knew that the Dentons, like her parents, wished, beyond reasoning, that Finn would be the lost son come home to run the family farm.
“Nay,” Finn said, but then chuckled. “Who can predict? Stranger things have happened.”
Oh, great! Give them hope.
“Though I cannot imagine myself milking a cow.”
Everyone laughed then, deciding to put aside all these heavy thoughts. “Come inside for a light lunch before you go into town,” Julie coaxed.
“Light? Hah! She’s been workin’ since dawn to prepare a feast for you all,” Herb teased.
“Oh, you!” Julie said, but then she seemed to notice something about Finn and did a double take. Addres
sing Lydia now, she remarked, “It’s all well and good to say this man has nothing to do with Dave, honey, but have you noticed what’s etched on that one arm ring?”
No, she hadn’t.
Peering close, she saw . . .
Stars.
She slapped a hand over her rapidly beating heart.
And she could swear she heard a laughing voice in her head say, “Babe.”
The memorial service would be memorable . . .
Jamal breathed a sigh of relief, just barely missing a security guard as he gained entry into the city’s maintenance warehouse just after midnight on Thursday night.
No one would recognize him from a distance as a person of Arab descent, or even as a man, dressed as a restaurant worker coming home from a night shift. He wore a blond wig, blue contact lenses, theatrical makeup, a waitress uniform, and orthopedic white shoes. Thank Allah for the Internet. The hardest part had been shaving his legs, and double shaving his face. On the way here, he’d passed two men on the other side of the street, who he assumed were undercover agents. The town was swarming with them . . . FBI, police, those damn Navy SEALs.
Quickly, using a flashlight, he found the statue of his enemy, under a sheet cover. He would like nothing better than to blow it to pieces right now, but his plan called for much more. He wanted it to explode when Lydia Denton and her son were sitting on the platform in front of it during the ceremony.
He propped the flashlight so it shone steadily on the brass plate, which read:
LIEUTENANT DAVID DENTON
U.S. NAVY SEAL
PROUD WARRIOR
PROUD SON OF FARMDALE, MINNESOTA
1973-2003
His upper lip curled back over his teeth with disgust as he quickly set out his tools. Screwdriver to undo the plate. Chisel and mini-hacksaw to dig a hole under the plate big enough to hold the time-release bomb he carried in his giant purse. It was not a huge bomb. Unlike the evil Denton, he cared about collateral damage. A radius of twenty feet would do nicely.
To his surprise, it only took him an hour to complete the job and replace the plate and sheet covering.
Then he left for his new hiding place. He would not return to the hillsides near the two farms. Too risky now. Instead he would go to the home on the outskirts of town, which he had commandeered at knifepoint, the two elderly residents tied to their kitchen chairs with duct tape.
