Page 12 of Beware of Hodags

RACHEL

Shepard arrives at daylight bearing toffee-flavored coffee.

I’m feeling optimistic this morning after having woken up with the resolve to meet any challenges Shepard and I will come up against. We’ve found each other. Now we’ll figure the rest out. From his hopeful expression, I think he must be feeling the same way.

We can do this. We just need to take one day at a time. Thankfully, coffee always helps.

With much appreciation, I accept the liquid toffee treat he’s holding out to me and invite him inside while I finish getting ready for the Lumberjack Festival.

I shower and scoot down the hall into the bedroom I claimed to change into a pink blouse with three-quarter-length sleeves and a guipure lace skirt with scalloped trim that skims my ankles.

I don’t know why I packed it. I never wear it.

It’s white, and I’ve always been so nervous that I’ll stain it.

But I’m glad I brought it now. I feel pretty in it.

I pair it with low wedges, strappy raffia ones that make my feet look cute and my butt look great. Impractical for walking a festival? Absolutely.

Worth the risk of twisting my ankle when I want to impress Shepard?

I’m gonna risk it.

Knuckles tap the door. “Rach? You about ready?”

I wiggle my crimson and gold-painted toenails. “I’m ready.” I pull open the door—and stop .

He arrived here freshly showered and dressed in sweats and a T-shirt.

But while I got ready, seems he did too.

Now he’s wearing jeans and a red flannel shirt.

A white undershirt peeks out at the base of his throat where the top two buttons of his flannel are undone.

He doesn’t take his eyes off me when he pronounces, “Gosh, you look good.”

My heart flips. And the look on his face as he continues to take me in makes me feel like I’m floating.

He raises his gaze to mine and blinks. “What?”

“You do too,” I inform him, drinking him in with a stupid grin on my face. “You look very handsome. Lumberjack suits you,” I assure him.

“We need to hurry out of here,” he says, eyes still glued to me, making me feel amazing.

But at his words, I frown and pick up my cell phone off the edge of the bed to check the time. “Are we late?”

“No,” he says and tips his head at all of me. “But we will be if we don’t get me away from you in that getup.”

I grin.

Growling, he backs away from the door. “Come on, temptress.”

Delighted, I follow him out and slide on my jacket while he puts on socks and boots. His voice is slightly hoarse when he asks, “There a problem?”

I drop my sleeve, which I’d been contemplating between pinched fingers. “I don’t know. Do you think this jacket will be warm enough? It felt a little chilly when I opened the door for you. How cold is it going to be?”

He shrugs and stands. “It’s Wisconsin. There are only two seasons: winter and July Fourth.”

“Ha.” I throw him a smile. “There’s only two seasons in Michigan too. Winter and construction.”

He chuckles. “What you’ve got on ought to do fine. It might start a bit windy but it’s supposed to be a hot day.”

I squint. “And your definition of hot would be… ”

“You,” he says seriously.

I don’t even try to bite back my smile.

Amusement curls his lips and he steps up to me, staring into my eyes. “How about,” he says silkily, reaching around me to open the door, “if you get cold, I promise to warm you up?”

“I like that,” I purr.

He takes my hand and we head out to his green truck.

He drives us to Hodag Park, where it’s very obvious a popular event is taking place. The lot is packed with cars and clogged with people.

Moving at a crawl and driving carefully to avoid collision with pedestrians and vehicles, Shepard’s thumb taps the top of the steering wheel.

“Place is insane. I can park on the grass if you want a spot up front,” he offers, sparing a look over at me.

“But wherever we end up, there’s still going to be a lot of walking. Want to be here or on the grass?”

My lips compress in a smile. “I don’t need you to break the rules for me. You can park here where everyone else is parked.”

Putting on his turn signal to alert the pedestrians in front of us that he’s pulling into a parking spot, Shepard makes the tiniest back-and-forth shake of his head.

“It wouldn’t be breaking the rules. This place gets so packed that overflow ends up on the grass eventually—it’d just be at our own peril because it’s harder to leave.

” He observes his blinker with a frown. “I really need to figure out why this thing is blinking so fast.”

I work my buckle blindly, eyes too busy scanning our surroundings to spare a glance down. Beyond the packed parking lot, arts and crafts vendor tents cover the park lawn as far as the eye can see. “No need to make it harder to leave. I enjoy walking. And man, this is huge.”

Rolling into a spot and shoving his gear stick into park, he says, “It’s fun too.” He kills the engine. “I’ll get your door.”

He does and then he’s lacing his fingers in mine, making my chest tighten. Hand in hand we set out across the grass, headed for the tents .

There are people all around us. Everybody is wrapped up in their own bubbles. Nobody looks at us twice. Nobody looks at me twice. It’s nice.

The wind bites at us and tosses my hair, whipping it into my eyes. Brushing it back, I slide a glance over at Shepard. “I’m glad for my jacket.”

“I bet. Land Breeze effect.” He nods to the beautiful body of water nearby. “Boom Lake.”

“Very pretty,” I agree. “But I was hoping you’d show remorse that my jacket is working so well.”

Distracted, he sends me a blank look.

I sigh in exasperation. “Because you promised to warm me up if I get cold, remember?”

His eyes flare. “Right. Are you—”

But whatever he intends to say gets drowned out by the deafening bell of a boxing match’s gong.

I don’t startle. I’ve had years of desensitization to megaphones and blaring stadium speakers and buzzers loud enough to make my teeth ache. But Shepard wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into his side—the gesture so protective I melt.

Then a dozen hungry chainsaws roar to life—and this makes me jump. We turn to watch as a line of men begin carving humongous chunks of pine trees, sending up a fine and furious spray of woodchips.

“Neat!” I shout, leaning close to Shepard.

He squeezes me in agreement. He’s avidly watching the closest carver.

At first I think it’s because of the musky scent wafting off the man, identifying him as a rather dangerous type of shifter.

But nothing on Shepard’s face registers concern or alarm.

“Look at him go,” he calls to me loudly, although with an army of power tools ripping the air, he may as well be saying it under his breath .

But my hearing is excellent, so even over the din I catch his words just fine. We both watch as crude antlers emerge from the rapid cuts the artist is making.

“Moose,” Shepard identifies relatively quietly, but again I hear him.

Agree with him too, as I take in the wide palmate shape of them.

Twenty minutes later, the carver brings his blade down in a curve that gives the emerging face a droopy nose and chin. Next he chops out a decent-sized dewlap.

As the blade chews into the chest, Shepard asks, “Hungry?”

I cast a curious look around us, at the tents and trucks lined up nearby. I blink at our options. “Does that say Pancake Truck?”

Shepard tugs my hand. “Let’s go find out.”

The pancake truck dishes us up two buttermilk pancakes.

The girl who takes our money casts curious looks at my face and I give her an understanding smile before stepping back.

Alongside the truck is a table full of fruit and syrups.

The glass bottles are labeled: Gingerbread Maple Syrup, Salted Caramel Maple Syrup, Peppermint Bark Maple Syrup, and more.

“We need more pancakes so we can try all of these out!” I gasp. “Pumpkin Spice Maple Syrup?” I read off another bottle before setting it down as if I’m being tortured. “I can’t choose between them.” Holding my plate with greedy hands, I look at Shepard. “What will you pick?”

“None.” When I give him a horrified look, he shrugs. He reaches for a plastic container that has the words powdered sugar written across it in marker. He pops the lid and serves himself a meager scoop. Then he turns to me, waiting for me to make my choice.

“No syrup?” I ask him.

He lifts a shoulder, looking down at his plate a little forlornly. As he eyes his powder sprinkled pancakes, his brows lower. “Less messy… hopefully,” he adds in a murmur .

“I’m sad for you,” I tell him and I make a thorough perusal of the syrup bar alone.

I opt to cut my pancakes into quarters and pour a little bit of the best-sounding syrups on each one to give myself the maximum chance to try all the flavors.

I’m just finishing when Shepard places his hand at my lower back.

When I glance at him, he nods to something beside us and asks, “Want to mow down a dog or a brat?”

“What?”

He points. Next to us is a tent with a banner that proclaims Dogs n’ Brats.

“So that’s what I’ve been smelling! Yeah, I’ll eat a dog.”

Eyeing me, Shepard pokes his cheek with his tongue. “Turning you into an honorary hodag.”

I send him a narrow-eyed look.

He chuckles and ambles for the line. When I catch up to him, his hand comes up and settles around my neck. His brows pull together. “You should eat. Go pick a table.” He jerks his chin at the picnic tables around us.

“I don’t want to eat without you,” I protest. “I’ll wait.”

At this declaration, his eyes warm and he raises his arm to invite me to his side. Happily I tuck against him, clutching my plate of pancakes, and bask in contentment as he closes his arm around me while we wait for our turn to order.

When we reach the window, Shepard squeezes me. “What do you want?”

I look at the pictures on the side of the wagon. “I’ll take the hot dog with the bacon strips wrapped around it, please.”