Page 122 of Down and Dirty

“I know,” he repeated, “but it sure looked like her. Honest. She even had a frowny face on, like she did sometimes.”

Zach shook his head but couldn’t suppress a grin. Britta with her frowny face. Yeah, Sammy had gotten that right.

“Maybe it was just a walrus.”

Yeah, right. “Can we change the subject?”

“Can I have a dog?”

The ice woman thaweth…

For two days Britta lay shivering in a cot piled high with woolen blankets.

At first she feared that the babe would die from the shock of the ice-cold near-drowning, and she believed she was back in the Everstead keep. But neither of them died. Nor was she at Everstead.

Britta had walked out into the Norse fjord, but she came out of the Bering Sea in another part of the world, frozen nigh solid. Out of her mind with fever at first, she’d eventually discovered that she was in a land called Alaska, which was part of America.

A wonderful couple had taken her into their home… Daryl and Dottie Woolever, lawyers here in Alaska. The young couple had even called a doctor to come care for her. To everyone’s surprise, she had not only survived her foolish dunking, but she had not even gotten hypo-therm-ia, a condition where body appendages often fell off. She was rather fond of her fingers and toes and especially her nose.

Once the confusion of her fever wore off, Britta realized that she had time-traveled forward again and survived, along with her unborn child. And if she had her way, this time-travel business was ended for her, in either direction.

The bad news was that she was cut off and isolated from anyone and anything that was familiar to her. Why she was sent here to Alaska, she had no idea, but then she had had no idea why she had been sent to Coronado, either. Mayhap Zachary was here, and he’d wish-prayed for her again.

Almost immediately, she discarded that foolish notion. Already she had asked Daryl and Dottie to inquire if there was a Zachary Floyd or Sammy Floyd anywhere in the region. There was not. The only Sammy was a child named Sammy Smith, and his father’s name was Frank.

“It’s Thanksgiving, Britta, we should celebrate,” Dottie said as the two of them set the dining table.

“I am thankful. I just wish I had been able to contact Zachary by now.”

Daryl and Dottie had helped her dial Zachary’s telephone number, which she had remembered, thank the gods, but when she called, someone told her, “This number has been disconnected.” Her friends explained that it meant he had probably gotten a new number.

Everyone else that Britta tried to call had unlisted numbers: Hilda, Madrene, the other SEALs.

Daryl knew someone who knew someone at a telephone place, and they told him that there was no new number for Zachary, that he must have moved, whereas the other numbers were merely unlisted for privacy and safety concerns.

So her only choice was to travel to California next week, with the aid of her new friends, and see in person what was happening. In the meantime, she was tired all the time, weepy, hungry, and ready to relieve her bladder every other moment.

After a fabulous turkey feast, Britta needed a nap. She was still sleeping on the sofa in front of the fireplace in the solar when Dottie shook her shoulders gently. “Britta, it’s time to get up. We’re going to the dance.”

Britta blinked to clear her head, then sat up, yawning widely. “Methinks I should stay here and tend the fire.”

“Now, you promised,” Dottie cajoled.

“Besides, I doubt anyone but you two would dance with me,” Daryl said.

Britta smiled at the devilry in his dancing eyes. “I have naught to wear.”

“Ta da!” Dottie tossed a pile of clothing at her. Another pair of Daryl’s den-ham braies, a white tea-ing shert, a flannel over-shert, thick wool hose, and a pair of Daryl’s boots. Daryl was her height and thin, whilst Dottie was short and well-curved. A pair of Dottie’s braies would come only to her calves.

So it was that a resigned Britta went to her first-ever Thanksgiving dance in a barn. These Americans were very strange.

Oooh, wait till I get my hands on you…

Zach and Sammy had been at the Thanksgiving dance at the Grange hall for an hour, and he had to admit it was fun… the first time he’d smiled in what seemed like ages.

Sammy was off chasing some of his friends, rather than dance to the country band playing what he called “dorky music.” Zach had been teaching Sammy how to dance the last few nights, and the two of them had laughed more than learned any new steps. Besides, Sammy said he wasn’t going to touch any stinky girls anyhow, not even their hands.

Zach leaned against the wall and watched. There were at least two hundred people here, of all ages, and about half of them were out on the dance floor. As his eyes scanned the crowd, he saw Francine Doucet, Sammy’s schoolteacher. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.