Page 14 of Beware of Hodags

Shepard tugs me into his arms and kisses the top of my head. “Can’t stop smiling when I’m in the middle of appreciating so many compliments.” He turns me back to face the ugly hodag sculpture. “If you’d never met me and you saw this, would you take any hodag legends seriously?”

I snort. “Not a chance.”

His lips land on top of my head again, making a happy shiver rush up my spine. “Exactly.”

More tour guests arrive and we sidle aside so they can exclaim over the hodag contained behind the glass.

“Hey. Look at this,” Shepard murmurs, and I follow his nod to a chiffon ribbon hair bow that has tiny hodags decorating it. He raises his eyes to my windblown hair. “Want it? ”

I consider it, but I feel my lips twist as I shake my head. “It’s not a clip-on.”

“So?” He sways me in his arms. “You can tie a bow, can’t you?”

“You’d think so, but I can’t even tie an apron behind myself. I have no hope of getting that thing in my hair in a way that improves all this,” I wave to my head.

Shepard sinks his fingers into my hair and gently works his fingers through it, combing it back. “I’ll do it. I can tie a bow, Rach.”

To prove he can make good on his promise, he starts finger combing my hair into a ponytail.

And maybe he can’t tell what he’s doing to me. But every time his fingers graze my neck, every time his breath skates over my scalp, I’m electrified. His touches have me sizzling.

He ties the bow and tugs me to the counter where a bored clerk is reading a paperback.

That is, until she looks up from her book and sees my face. Her jaw drops and she blurts out, “Ugh.”

Shepard turns to stone at my back.

Inwardly I wince.

“Sorry!” the woman says, covering her mouth.

I give her an uncomfortable smile, but Shepard gives her a hard stare—I know because his hands close over my shoulders and he leans past me, getting right in her face.

Stammering another apology, she rings up our purchase.

Stiffly, Shepard pays and takes the receipt, then protectively tucks me under his arm. Gruffly he encourages me to peruse the rest of the shop.

As uncomfortable as that was, Shepard’s desire to safeguard and shelter me is melting my heart. I could happily jump him right now.

I try to cool down by focusing on things that aren’t him.

It’s impossible, but at least there’s lots to look at.

There are informational cards placed around the room.

They inform visitors of rarely known hodag trivia, such as the fact that hodags grow white coats in the winter—camouflage in this quasi-tundra town that, also according to the card, received 122. 9 inches of snow the winter of 2023.

One hundred and twenty-two point nine inches of snow.

I let that sink in. That is so much shoveling. “Goodness,” I mutter.

Correctly reading my concern, Shepard runs a reassuring hand down my back. “Don’t sweat it. I have a snow blower that could blast every driveway clean from here to Alaska,” he boasts.

Another card claims that this town’s beasts don’t have a super sense of smell.

The next promises that hodag tears taste like the best lemonade in the world.

The final card states that hodag howls are indistinguishable from wolves and that some of the wolf howling in Rhinelander is actually hodag activity.

Shepard’s mouth brushes my ear and he pitches his voice low enough not to be overheard. “These claims are true. Our limited sense of smell in particular is a bummer. Our nose is no more sensitive than a human’s.”

I don’t even know what he’s said. My system is short circuiting thanks to the way his lips have whispered over this incredibly sensitive part of my body.

It takes me a second to get my brain back online.

With obvious reluctance, Shepard drops his arms from me.

He looks a little dazed too as he blinks the maple leaf red color from his irises.

When his eyes are a calm gold again, he heaves out a breath.

“We’d better get out of here before we show these people more than they came for. ” He frowns at me. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah.” I unzip my jacket and take his hand. “Just got a little warm.”

His eyes gleam. “Oh yeah?”

We head back for the festival. We’re strolling through a row of craft tents, hand in hand, when Shepard checks his phone. “Beard contest starts in five.” He gives me a look, and by now, I know what’s coming .

His lips attack mine. His beard gets fresh with me again but I’m starting to like it. Whenever it tickles my face, I feel tingles in other places. Lower places.

Shepard pulls back, almost breathless. “Still clean?”

I’m biting back a smile. “I’m not sure.”

He sighs. “Woman, we only have four minutes.” He slides his hand into my hair and kisses me until someone walking by threatens to find a hose so they can turn it on us.

When we separate, I pant, “It’ll do,” as I motion to Shepard’s face.

We arrive at the beard contest area, and we know we’re in the right place because there’s a line of guys in buffalo plaid and beards.

“What’s the prize?” I ask Shepard as he leads us to caboose the line.

“A kiss,” he tells me.

My gaze slams to his. “It’s what?”

He smirks at my outrage. “Officially, I have no idea. But the prize you’re going to give me is a kiss.”

“Oh.” I sniff. “I can probably handle that,” I decide, my voice lofty.

“I hope so,” he returns, giving my hip a squeeze.

Of course Shepard’s is the sexiest. Of course I vote for him.

He doesn’t win.

When he moves in to kiss me, I pull back, affecting a sympathetic face. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t kiss you.”

His eyes narrow. His head tilts a little. “You can’t, huh?”

I shake my head regretfully. “You have to earn it.”

“Is that so?” His eyes are heated. So heated his irises are turning an alarming shade of scarlet.

“Yep,” I say lightly, and give his bearded cheek a pat. “Better luck next time.”

He blinks. He blinks again, faster, the hodag red fading from his eyes. “Next time,” he echoes .

I give him a mock wince. “Next year’s beard contest is a long time to wait for another kiss.” I bite my lip. “Maybe if you win that one, I’ll graciously give you an extra long kiss.”

His face has gone expressionless. Or at least I can’t read his expression behind his beard. “How’s your aim?”

I frown and pull back, confused. “My aim?”

He snaps his fingers then opens his hand, waiting for me to place mine in his. “Skillet toss for you.”

Eyeing him, I do. “Skillet… toss?”

He tugs me forward. “Come on, Bruiser. If you lose, I want to give you something long too.”

Choking back a laugh, I follow him.

He leads me to a line of ladies throwing skillets at a wooden cutout of a lumberjack.

I’m so baffled. “What the heck are they doing?”

“Chucking eight pounds of cast iron at a wooden lumberjack’s head.”

“Why?”

“Maybe there were lumberjacks who didn’t appreciate the pretty cooks who made them flapjacks,” Shepard ventures. “I’d never be that dumb,” he assures me out of the corner of his mouth. “Want to play?”

My aim sucks so I lose—but Shepard is right beside me, his hand sliding around my neck. His eyes twinkle with amusement as he tugs my face to his, murmuring. “C’mere. I need to give you a victorious, long… kiss of defeat.”

“A kiss of defeat?” I sputter, pulling back.

“That’s right.” He jerks me to him with the hand he has around my waist. “I’m not stingy like you.” His lips brush mine when he adds, “I’ll reward you for losing.”

When we break apart, I gasp, “What other games can we be bad at?”

He grins at me .

We find a 3K run—and we walk it, coming in dead last.

We enjoy a very long victory kiss of defeat.

There’s axe throwing. A dozen people, men and women, line up in front of targets. We’re all handed hatchets. Shepard and I stay side by side, sharing the same target. Our axes are different colors so we’ll know who’s racking up points, but I reach up into my hair and undo my bow.

“Are you ruining all my hard work?” Shepard asks mildly.

“Yes.”

He tuts. “Alright. Means that I’ll have to help you put it in again so I’m not complaining,” he states as I reach for his hatchet’s handle and tie my ribbon around it.

Again, I suck at throwing. But to my delight, Shepard’s really good at it. So good that he wins. Not just against me—he wins against everyone.

Onlookers are clapping politely, but Shepard doesn’t even notice. He turns to me and gives me an expectant look.

As I step up to him, a full body shiver goes through me, warming me up for the kiss that’s coming—

Just before our lips meet, the contest judge appears beside us, his mic echoing so that his voice comes at us twice as he shouts, “And the winner -winner gets this beautiful -beautiful , forged in Sweden -Sweden, Hults Bruk Agdor Felling Axe!”

Pulling back from me, Shepard accepts the deadly-looking He-Man tool of an axe before nodding to the now-cheering crowd of observers. Then, his eyes locked with mine, he drops to a knee.

The crowd’s reaction is a delighted chorus of oooohs and laughter, and their clapping has become invested.

“Oh wait,” Shepard says, lightly returning to his feet. He jogs for our target and plucks my hair bow off his axe before sprinting back to me.

I get why performers grow to love performing.

I mean, sure, for my job I get to feel a crowd’s thrill and hear them cheer, but that’s really about the team I work for, not me.

This is different. The people crowded around us are going insane, thrilled at Shepard’s win and chivalrous actions toward me.

So am I. And I hardly give headspace to what any of the onlookers here think of my birthmarks because it doesn’t matter.

I’m happy with the way I am—and so is Shepard.

I’m smiling hard enough to split my face as he returns to a knee in front of me, my chiffon ribbon caught in his strong fist.

One corner of Shepard’s mustache kicks up as he winks at me. Then he bows his head and holds up his axe to me like he’s a knight and I’m his princess and he’s presenting his Swedish-forged sword to me in a show of fealty.