“You are impossible!” She threw out her hands in disgust, turned on her heel, and sprinted up the steps to the porch. He grabbed her by the upper arm and stopped her before she went inside.
“Explain yourself, woman.”
“I was hoping you would say your dearest wish was to spend a lifetime with me, but I’m not entirely delusional. What I thought you would say was that your dearest wish is to spend the night with me.”
Oh, now I am beginning to understand. But, bloody hell, where is all this hostility coming from? Must be that time of the month. But he was not dumb enough to express that thought. Instead, all he answered was, “’Tis.”
“’Tis not,” she replied, mimicking his form of speech…which was really unkind of her.
“Settle down, Angela,” he started to say, and immediately realized his mistake. Never, never, never tell a woman to settle down. What was he thinking?
Her nostrils flared.
Time to cut my losses. There is only one way to stop a woman when she is on a rant. He picked Angela up off her feet by the waist, wrapped his arms around her tightly, and proceeded to kiss her thoroughly…so thoroughly that he hoped her bones were melting, because his certainly were. With his lips still firmly locked on hers and her feet still dangling off the porch floor, he turned and leaned his shoulders against the wall. His staff, which had been at half-mast for the past week, went full sail, pressing into her stomach.
How could Angela doubt how much he wanted her?
Certainly all his children, as well as Grandma Rose and Juanita, who were surely watching the spectacle he was creating, must realize how much he wanted her.
When he finally broke the kiss, he murmured, “How could you doubt my desire for you?” Any more desire and I will burst into flames.
“A hard-on does not equal true affection, and that is what I want.”
A hard-on? A hard-on? That was certainly blunt enough. He did not need a translator to know what that crude term meant. Looking down at Angela’s passion-dazed expression, he whispered, “It is my dearest wish to be with you…sex or no sex…for as long as I am able.” Now, that was a stretch of the truth. “Do you believe me?”
She nodded.
He still wanted a cow.
But he was learning when to share his thoughts, and when to keep his big mouth shut.
We are family….
Magnus and his children felt like family to Angela; so she decided to take them on a family outing the next day.
Oh, she was still annoyed with Magnus about his preferring a cow over her, but obviously not too annoyed, because her choice for their day away from the Blue Dragon was the regional Grange Fair and Craft Show, a preliminary to the state fair in the fall. The dolt would probably get to see a cow or two today.
Torolf’s friend, Juan, was coming with them. He had borrowed a van for that purpose. The Universe Studios van had been returned days ago on the demand of a furious Darrell Nolan when he learned that his prize Viking was not going to be his prize Viking. He had threatened lawsuits and such for breach of promise, but Angela didn’t think anything would come of that.
Also accompanying them was Lily, who had already proclaimed that she had a crush on Torolf. Kirsten was casting googly eyes toward Juan, who, at eighteen, was much too old for her.
Grandma said she’d rather stay home and relax…which meant that she was probably planning to chain-smoke the whole time they were gone. Magnus had organized hired security personnel and Blue Dragon workers to patrol the grounds while they were gone; he and his older boys would cover the night shift.
Fourteen of them piled out of two vehicles as they arrived at the fairgrounds.
After strapping an adorable Lida, with her Winnie the Pooh sun hat and matching jumper, into a fold-up stroller, and after Angela insisted that everyone slap on sun block and wear baseball caps or sun visors, they made for the entrance.
“I have been riding a longship on the high seas and working my fields for thirty and more years without suffering a sunstroke or the skin sun-disease you speak of,” Magnus grumbled as he began to push Lida’s stroller. One of the things that amazed her about Magnus was how he took on certain caregiving tasks without ever questioning whether it was masculine or not. He was that secure in his own masculinity…as he had every right to be.
“Stop complaining. I could tell you enjoyed my slathering that cream on your face and arms.”
“There was that,” he conceded, flashing a wide grin her way, “though there are some other body parts of mine that could use equal…slathering.”
Magnus looked just as adorable today as Lida, except he was wearing a soft plaid short-sleeved shirt, blue jeans with neat creases (God bless Juanita!), athletic shoes, and a Dodgers baseball cap over his tied-back hair. Surprisingly, his attire did not look out of place with the etched silver bracelets on his upper arms, which he never seemed to take off. Torolf never removed his either, and more than a few teenage girls were giving him and his armrings a second glance. It didn’t hurt that he was wearing a black tank top and cutoffs, which showed off his muscles. He wasn’t as tall or as muscular as his father, though. Not for the first time, Angela likened Magnus to a tree.
Just then Magnus caught her checking him out and grinned. He gave her an equally thorough once-over, and his grin widened when he got to the spaghetti straps of her blue sundress, which left her shoulders and arms exposed. Like the other females, she wore a sun visor…in this case a clear blue plastic one, with her ponytail hanging out through the back. On her feet were sandals, which left visible her shocking pink enameled toes…something that seemed to particularly please Magnus.
In fact, he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Methinks I have the perfect fantasy for later. Something involving toes and tongues.”
“Oh, you!” she said, and slapped him playfully on the arm. But what she thought was, Oh, boy! It had been seven long days and nights since they’d last made love, and she missed him with a passion.
“Do you want me to take over with Lida?” Torolf asked. “The way you two are gazing at each other, I suspect you will be looking for the nearest hay byre.”
“Torolf, you overstep yourself,” Magnus cautioned. “’Tis no way for a son to speak to his father. Mayhap you will learn some manners if I decide to send you to the same school Kirsten and Dagny want to attend so desperately.”
“You would not!”
“Do not test me, son, or you may find out.”
“All I did was ask if you wanted me to help with Lida.”
“You asked more than that, and you well know it. You can help me, though.” He handed Torolf several bills. “I put all the younger boys in your care, especially Njal and Hamr. Do not let them get in trouble.”
“Faðir! You know bloody well that is impossible. Njal and Hamr cannot breathe without getting in trouble. Oh, for the love of Frigg! Do you see that?” Torolf scurried off toward the gaming area, where Hamr and Njal were about to throw darts at balloons.
“What’s so wrong with darts?” she asked.
“They will hit themselves with the darts, piercing an essential body part, or they will hit the man standing behind the plank under the tent, or they will hit some passerby. That, I guarantee.”
“Maybe you are being overprotective.”
“Would you like to make a wager?”
“A wager?”
“Yea. Something involving pink toes would suffice.”
Where does he come up with this amazing stuff? Why do I find it so tantalizing? “And what do I get if I win? I’m not taking any more of your gold coins.”
“Tongue.”
Yep. Amazing and tantalizing.
Just then there was a shout of, “Hey!” The guy at the dart booth had fortunately ducked in time, but Njal had apparently almost hit him in the head with a dart. Torolf rushed up and grabbed both boys, apologizing profusely to the game-booth owner.
“I did not get my prize yet,” Hamr was shrieking to
Torolf, who had him and Njal by the upper arms, dragging them away.
“I will give you a prize…on your puny little arse,” Torolf said.
Kirsten and Dagny were standing some distance away, red-faced and pretending not to know their brothers. The girls looked especially pretty today in matching, though different colored shorts and tank-top sets. Instead of their usual braids, their long blond hair hung loose down their backs almost to their waists. Lily had already commented on the pretty color of their hair, referring to them as Loxies…as in natural blondes in the vein of Goldilocks, as compared to Boxies, which were blondes born of boxed color.
Juan was staring at Kirsten with too much interest, but so were some younger boys who passed by. Angela wasn’t worried about Juan. He was a good young man who would respect the invisible age taboo. Besides, he had a girlfriend. When Kirsten turned eighteen and Juan was twenty-two, that might be a different matter.
For the next few hours they walked around admiring the exhibits, everything from dried flower arrangements to fruit and vegetable preserves to fine needlework. Lida fell asleep in her stroller right away. When Angela fingered the finely crafted quilts, Magnus decided to buy her one in a star-and-heart pattern.
“This is much too expensive a gift,” she said, even as he was paying for the item, and the woman was wrapping it in tissue.
“We Vikings love to give gifts more than anything else…well, almost anything else.” He pinched her butt to show what he meant…as if she were clueless…as if any female over the age of twelve could misinterpret the hot look in his eyes. “Some say we are generous to a fault betimes, but methinks we get back what we give in life. And even if we do not, there is joy in the mere giving.”
“So what you’re saying is, ‘Shut up and accept the gift.’”
“Something like that,” he replied with a laugh. “Or, ‘Shut your teeth and give me a gratitude kiss.’”
She did just that, gladly.
“You are so embarrassing, Father,” Kirsten said in a mortified whisper. She had come up behind them with Dagny and Lily, who were hooting with laughter. “Men your age should not be interested in kissing…and, like, stuff.”
“Men my age?”
“Old men,” she said with disgust.
“Old? I am not old. Besides, men and women never get too old for kissing…and stuff.” He lifted her by the waist then, twirled her around twice, then kissed her soundly and loudly on the mouth.
Kirsten just giggled, then hugged her father warmly.
“Can I get twirled, too?” Dagny asked.
“For a certainty,” Magnus said, and gave the younger girl equal treatment.
What a father! Angela thought, and immediately added, What a man!
After that they ate and ate and ate. Hot sausage and meatball sandwiches. Corn dogs on sticks. French fries and onion rings. Fresh-squeezed lemonade. Funnel cakes. Popcorn. Lida, who was awake by now, favored cotton candy and cherry slushes, though she was given only a tiny taste of each.
Storvald found a woodworker who showed him how to use razor-sharp scalpels to create different effects on cherry-wood panels. His father promised to buy him a similar set.
Torolf kept winning at the anvil-and-bell game until he had six stuffed animals and a request from the operator to please move on.
Magnus almost had a heart attack when Hamr and Njal came over and discreetly dropped their shorts to show him the tattoos on their behinds. Fortunately they were removable ones. The boys danced away, laughing, when their father reached out to swat them. Those two really were little devils.
The others were off riding the amusement rides. A small Ferris wheel, which Magnus declared “for demented people only.” A merry-go-round. A mixer. A loop-the-loop. And bumper cars.
She and Magnus moved on to the fresh produce displays. How a man could be so interested in turnips and carrots and string beans was beyond her, but Magnus surely was. Angela took a now-restless Lida out of her stroller, changed her damp diaper, then let her walk around as Magnus stopped at stand after stand to speak with the farmers displaying their wares.
“How do you get beans this size?
“Do you use fresh fertilizer? Do you prefer cow manure over horse or pig shit?
“Do you save your kitchen garbage for the pigs, or do you put it back into the soil? Compost? What is that?
“When is the best time to plant spring onions? How about winter wheat?
“What effect does the hot temperature here have on your produce? Is there enough rain?
“Can a man make a living as a farmer?
“Farm supports? What are they?…What? Your government pays you not to grow certain crops? That is insanity…surely, it is.”
On and on Magnus went, asking question after question of the farmers, who loved talking about their work and their products. Angela could see that Magnus was in his element here. His questions were intelligent. His interest was genuine.
After that they entered the animal barns. And she might have thought Magnus had entered heaven…or his Viking Valhalla.
He touched each of the cows and examined them closely, calling them by name. Their names and those of their owners were on wooden plaques above the stalls. Messy Bessy. Madonna. Surfer Girl. Guernsey Girl. Holstein Hannah. Lucky Lady. Sylvia.
In one barn, modern-machine milking as well as old-fashioned hand milking was taking place. Magnus was incredulous over the milking machines and wanted to know all the details about the kinds and amounts of milk produced by the different breeds of cows.
Then there were the bulls…mean-looking dudes, these were. Brutus. Elmer III. Seventh Son. Brown Boy. Black Beauty. Cool Bull. Samson. Bull’s-eye. Fred.
The animals had ribbons of various colors beside their stalls to denote how they had been judged in the various events at the fair. Many of them had been raised by youngsters as 4-H projects.
While Magnus mooned over the cows and discussed milk production, new breeds, and prices with the owners, Angela had a bigger job with Lida: keeping her from stepping in cow poop.
A little boy, about eight years old, was weeping over a calf at the end of one barn, where his father was trying to console him. Apparently the calf—which had been born at the fair—was ill and might have to be put down.
Magnus stepped forth and asked what was wrong.
The father looked at him askance, but answered nonetheless: “The calf is starving to death. Won’t take milk from its mother. Won’t eat any of the special feed we mixed for her.” He shrugged, and the message was clear: this calf was dying.
Magnus knelt down in the straw beside the reclining calf and said, “Let me take a look.”
While he pushed the calf’s eyelids back, opened its mouth and examined its tongue, even smelled its breath, the boy’s father asked her, “Is he a veterinarian?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Just a farmer. A good farmer.”
The man knelt down beside Magnus then and the two of them talked seriously while Magnus continued to examine every inch of the ailing animal. “The calf has mold disease in its stomach. ’Twas probably passed on by its mother. The disease has little effect on the adult cow, but is too much for the little one to fight,” Magnus finally pronounced. “It must needs get a hot gruel mixture…a cupful at a time every hour till it will feed on its own. Force it down, if necessary.” He then told the man exactly what ingredients should be in the gruel.
The man appeared skeptical.
“What have you got to lose?” Magnus said.
They both stood and shook hands. The young boy reached out his hand to Magnus, too, and whispered tearfully, “Thank you.”
After that they moved on to pigs. Her favorite was a huge pig called Mud Stud. His “girlfriend,” the sow in the next stall, was called Dirty Mary. According to Magnus, Vikings ate a lot of pork and used all parts of the animal, including the hide and bones—even the hooves and nostrils. That was true of the cows, too. Yech!
Next, they visited
sheep, goats, chicken, and ducks.
At the “New Age” barn, they also saw ostriches, buffalo, trout, snakes, and alligators, which were also farm animals to some. Magnus couldn’t believe his eyes. He laughed with delight. He talked excitedly. He shook hands and exchanged stories.
This was a new Magnus, one she had never seen before. Here he was in his element. Here he did not hesitate. Here he held himself with pride and authority. Here he acted as if farming was a noble profession…which, of course, it was.
If she hadn’t known it before, she did now.
Magnus, the man she loved, was a farmer…plain and simple.
A man of many talents…
“Would you like to see me plow?”
Angela wiped the soapy foam from her eyes and stared at him through the frosty glass of her shower stall. “Magnus! It’s midnight, for heaven’s sake! What are you doing here?”
“All that exposure to farmers at the fair today reminded me where my true talents lie. I have come to show you my technique for…plowing.”
“Naked?”
“’Tis the best way,” he said, stepping into the stall and closing the door after him.
She gave his form a long, slow survey, from his head down to his curling toes, then back up to his favorite part, which was behaving impressively, if he did say so himself.
“Great plow,” she said, backing up slightly.
“Wait till you see the straight rows I harrow.” Magnus stepped forward, crowding her against the tile wall.
“You’d better hope the ground is not too fertile.” She combed the fingers of both hands through her wet hair to help remove the shampoo suds. Those motions caused her breasts to rise and fall in a very nice rhythm. In truth, there was a rhythm to her combing that set up a rhythm in his own body, down low.
But her words are like pouring cold water on a hot faggot. Be careful, my lady, or I may just fizzle. “You are right. What I don’t need is more…uh, turnips.”
“Turnips! Well, that’s as good a word as any, I suppose. Where are the turnips, by the way?”
Sandra Hill - [Vikings II 03] Page 21
