A Twist in Time (18 page)

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She turned on him. Oh, this was bad. “What man?”

“A small, soft man.”

Well, that let out the sailor she’d seen working on his boat and even the kid. And you couldn’t say either Brad or Casey was small or soft. “Did . . . did he attack you?”

“No. I think he wanted to be a friend.”

“Did you attack him?” She nodded to the sword, imagining fountains of blood, a body hacked to pieces and thrown overboard.

Galen looked affronted. “I did not attack him.”

“Well, what . . . what came to pass?” Boy, this Latin thing was sure getting annoying.

Galen lifted his chin. “He grew frightened and left.”

That sword would frighten anyone off. As a matter of fact, Galen, seen through a stranger’s eyes, was pretty fearsome with his naked, muscled frame, his wild hair, his barbarian braids, and his beard. Who could it have been?

“He had a cart also, but with more dirt than yours.”

A car. Someone not from the marina then . . . It was the nosey man from the convenience store Jake had warned her about, dollars to doughnuts. Galen would cause talk, and she didn’t want the man spreading stories of wounded Vikings from here to next Sunday.

“Okay, okay.” She had to do something about this.
First things first. Get the rest of the bags in
from the car, give Galen something to eat
. She needed to think anyway. “I will return.”

She carried in two more armloads of supplies while she thought. The man at the convenience store would tell everyone who came in and they’d tell someone, who’d tell someone, and pretty soon . . . Well she didn’t want to think what would happen if the police heard about Galen. Brad and Casey had to have the word out.
Okay. Okay. Just stay calm
. This was bound to happen sooner or later.
First see the man from the convenience store. Make up some story to
keep him from gossiping. And what would that be?

Galen watched her rummage through the bags. She pulled out the three-pack of boxer shorts, one in black-watch plaid, one plain navy blue, and one hunter green. She tossed him the plaid.

They hit him in the belly and slid to the floor, since he was still hanging on to that sword for dear life. “For you. Put down your sword.” She said it in English without thinking and was amazed to see that he understood. He laid his sword down and painstakingly reached for the boxers. Fierce as he looked with a sword in his hand, he was still injured. It had been less than forty-eight hours since he’d had surgery on his shoulder. He should be flat on his back. That he was not spoke to the fact that he came from an age where weakness was rewarded with death.

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He turned the boxer shorts around. His eyes widened as he found the elastic waistband. He examined the fabric. “
Es ful g d. Hw er . . . ?”
Then he found the slit for relieving oneself. One corner of his mouth turned up. The smile softened his face. He looked up at her under one arched brow.

She blushed. “Put them on.” She spoke in English because she couldn’t recall the Latin for

“dress yourself.”

He got the idea. He laid his sword reverently on the sofa. He put his bad leg into the boxers and marveled that the elastic stretched to accommodate his other foot.
“Hwaet es this?”

“Elastic,” she said.

“Elastic.” He pulled the boxers up to his knees and then stood, a little shaky, and pulled them over his hips. The elastic snapped against his ribbed belly.

Lucy sighed. No more X-rated scenery. That should be a relief. She would never have gotten used to it. Was it a relief? She rummaged in another bag and pulled out a pair of sweatpants. “If you are cold.” She handed them to him.

Again he examined the cloth. He pulled it and marveled at the stretch. He looked for the elastic at the waist and pulled it. “
E
lastic.” He put the emphasis on the first syllable.

She chuckled. “Yeah.”

“
Ne cyld
.” He laid them aside.

Hmmm
. That was pretty clearly “not cold.” The words they understood together were mostly one syllable—the Old English roots of the modern language. The basics lived on. She’d heard the
f
word was Old English, and the
c
word for female genitalia, too.
Bet you won’t find those in
any modern Old English dictionary
.

He watched her put groceries away. She popped open some herring and sour cream and a package of crackers. “Lunch,” she announced, and handed him a plateful and a fork. It had seemed a very Viking kind of food when she’d bought it.

“Herring,” he said. “
Es g d.”
His attention turned totally to his food, and he stabbed it as though it were still swimming.

Enough delay. There was no use putting off her trip to the Quik Stop any longer, even though she had no idea what she would say. Every moment she wasted was time the guy could be telling people about the crazy naked guy with the sword down on the boat in slip eighteen who looked like a Viking. She switched to Latin. “I go. I will be back. With greatest haste . . .”

Galen barely glanced up from his food as she left. It was less than a mile to the convenience store, but she took the car. She didn’t want to be away longer than she had to be.
Look what
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trouble Galen had gotten into already
. The sky was really dark now and the wind had kicked up.

They were in for some Northern California March weather.

She had no idea what she would say to the Quik Stop guy. If he was gossip central, he’d for sure tell the other people at the marina. Only two boats had been lighted last night, but that didn’t mean only two were occupied. Jake said anyone who stayed on a boat in the winter was hard-core. The lean, brown sailor looked like just the kind who would know someone like Casey. She felt a shudder start down her spine and stifled it. She was getting as bad as Jake.

She got out of the car in the little asphalt parking lot outside the Quik Stop. Cars whizzed by on Highway 37, mostly trucks going over to Vallejo and Richmond and locals in their pickup trucks.

The area was really rural and agricultural until you got up into the wine country, and that was just a more touristy kind of agriculture. The Quik Stop probably made its money off wine tourists in high season.

She pushed into the store, still not knowing what she’d say to the guy. She couldn’t stop the rumor mill.
Hmmmm
. But maybe she could use it. What would keep hard-core types from ever wanting to bother her and Galen? If she said he was a soldier, they’d want to trade war stories.

If she . . .

Wait. Oh yeah
. She knew what would keep hard-core types a hundred miles away.

The little man behind the crowded counter could be described as small and soft. The radio blared with pop music. He gave her a big grin. She glanced around. There were mail slots behind the counter. This was where their passports would show up tomorrow. She’d better buy something to give her an excuse to talk. Unsurprisingly, the store came equipped with a deli counter to sell unconscionably expensive picnic supplies to tourists. The goods looked a little thin and not quite fresh this time of year.

“Hi there,” she said. “Can I get a pint of the olives and some goat cheese?”

“Sure,” he said, rising. “You on your way up to the wine country?”

Here we go
. “Nope. I’m staying down at the marina.”

His eyes lighted up. “With the German guy?”

She let her eyes go soft and gave the sappiest smile she could muster. “Yeah.”
Don’t even tell
him Galen’s a Dane
. She cleared her throat. “He’s my husband.” An image of what a wedding night might be like with Galen started winding itself down her spine. She couldn’t help the blush that rose to her cheeks.
Oh, well. That works
.

“Newlywed maybe?”

She nodded. He cut off a slab of goat cheese. “We were in Acapulco on our honeymoon.”
How
did he get hurt? Shark attack? Too dramatic
. “We were powerboating. He went overboard and
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got sliced up in the propeller pretty bad.”
Was that even believable?
“The first day we got there.”

“Wow. You hardly had time to . . . uh . . . get to know each other.”

This guy was quaint. Most people these days had “gotten to know each other” in the biblical sense long before their wedding night. She gave a pronounced sigh, as though what he said was completely true. “My uncle lent us his boat as a honeymoon hideaway until Galen feels better.

Flew us up here and everything. It was really nice of him.”

“Bet you’re making up for lost time now.”

The blush rose again.
It’s okay. Goes with the story
, she told herself. “Well, no, not yet.”

The guy laughed as he ladled olives into a plastic container. “But soon. Your husband looked like he was recovering fast when I saw him today.”

“You . . . ?” She feigned ignorance.

“I went down to welcome you. Saw your lights last night. I . . . I guess I surprised him.”

“Uh-oh. I hope he didn’t frighten you with that Japanese sword of his.”

“Not . . . not really.” The guy looked away and then bustled over to the cash register.

“Oh, I am so sorry. He’s really very sweet.”

“I’d hate to see him riled up, I’ll say that.” The register spit out a receipt.

Lucy pulled out a twenty, smiling.
Sixteen dollars for some olives and goat cheese. Sheesh
. Then she sobered. “I hope we can get a little peace and quiet up here. If people start dropping by . . .

It’s just that Galen not speaking the language and being a little protective of me, well, he . . .

might react badly and then there’d be trouble.”

“Normally, I’d say he looks fierce enough to keep anybody away. But believe me, those crazies here all winter are tough nuts themselves.” He counted out her change. “Nope. The way to keep them away is to let them see you canoodling.”

Canoodling? Who said that?
Still, it was just what she’d hoped.
But wait. How to explain Galen’s
fierce looks?
“He’s not really fierce, you know. Well, except about me. He’s a little shaggy right now. Wanted to have a traditional wedding with all of us dressed like . . . like Druids.”
Hope the
guy is ignorant enough not to realize that Druids were Celt, not Germanic
. “He won’t be quite so intimidating when we get him shaved and those braids out of his hair.”

The clerk just laughed. “Lady, if you think that is going to make him look less scary . . .”

“If you only knew how kind he is,” she said as though sharing a secret.