Page 3 of Paw Prints in the Sand (The Northern Shifters #2)
Chapter Three
Nashville, TN
D ear future Cara
We made it to Nashville, and we’re staying in our first Motel. The reality is less like television and films and more like a lumpy bed with a lot of dark brown furniture, but it’s still an experience—even if it’s an experience that might give us lice.
The lady behind the desk let me use her computer to send an email to Sean. We’ve only been gone two weeks, but he’d already sent me three since my last. Sean always has a story to tell, and he always manages to make even the mundane sound so funny and interesting.
Between me and, well, me, I was nervous that my life might become boring as soon as I settle down, get married and have kids, but I can’t imagine ever having a dull day with Sean.
It’s a bonus that he’s so easy on the eyes.
Mammy always said you should be wary of charming men with silver tongues, but Granny Orla said I’d die of boredom if I settled for a dim-whit, and she was madly in love with Grandad right up until the day he died. I’m not sure I can say the same for Mammy and Da. No offence.
Anyway, I don’t need to tell you (me?) that my parents probably hate each other, so on with my travel update.
Tomorrow, we’re going to a real-life RODEO! If I don’t see a sexy cowboy in fringe chaps, then we’ll have to detour to Texas because I’ve not come all this way not to see a sexy cowboy in chaps. And a cowboy hat. AND BOOTS.
Siobhan has also dared me to ride a mechanical bull, which isn’t very ladylike, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to show some big men how a wolf shifter holds her own. Hopefully, I won’t embarrass myself. If I do, I’ll leave that part out of my next email to Sean.
Maybe I should buy some chaps as a gift for him? Now, there’s an idea. I think you’ll thank me.
From past Cara x
“What exactly is in a corn dog?” I ask, eyeing the meat on a stick.
“No idea, but it tastes good,” Noah replies through a mouthful of food.
Ugh. I tentatively nibble on the corner of it. The outer layer is sort of crunchy and slightly sweet. When I take a bite with the sausage, I appreciate the salty-sweet combo and decide I can get on board with corn dogs, which is a good thing because Noah bought six of them.
We make our way through the stands to find our seats. I feel like I’m on the set of a movie, surrounded by people in rhinestone-covered denim jackets, fringe chaps, cowboy hats and boots. I hope when Mum came she got to see a cowboy all kitted out. Even if I am a bit mentally scarred from the image of my da in a pair of fringe chaps. I’m kind of hoping she never did buy him that gift, but I’ve also never dared ask him. Some things are best not to know about your parents.
I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia when I inhale a deep breath. The scent of farm animals and leather is strong, reminding me of all the summers I spent helping my Uncle Karl on his farm in Marsden growing up. He’s a miserable bastard, but I loved taking care of the horses.
As more and more people begin to find their seats, the speakers are suddenly filled with commentators announcing the first bull rider, a guy from Austin.
When the gates open and the bull is released, my heart is in my throat as a guy—in what appears to be nothing but a helmet for protection—clings onto a bucking bull for dear life as the clock counts eight seconds. When the time is up, he launches himself off the back of the bull and ducks behind a gate for safety as three more men try to corral the bull into the shoot without getting stomped on in the process. The first rider scores eighty-seven, although I’m not entirely sure what a good score is in this sport.
Before long, the announcers introduce the second rider of the night, and I watch on as, right when the clock reaches three seconds, the rider is bucked off to one side. Only his arm is still clinging to the rope. As the bull rages, he’s bounced around like a rag doll before he appears to get kicked right in the chest. I wince as he’s ushered towards the medics.
“This doesn’t seem very ethical,” I say to Noah, putting my half-eaten corn dog back on the cardboard plate. I’m not feeling very hungry after that.
“Fun things rarely are,” he replies wistfully.
Rider number three of the night is apparently tackling the highest-scoring bull, but to his credit, he makes it look easy. When his eight seconds are up, he leaps off its back and lands gracefully on the ground, well away from where the bull continues to rage.
“I’m gonna need to ride one of those,” Noah says, eating his fourth corn dog.
“ You are gonna ride a bull?”
“God no... I’m gonna ride a bull rider.”
“Ugh. You know you can keep some thoughts inside your head, right?” I try to shake that particular mental image of my cousin out of my mind.
“Where’s the fun in that?” He smirks.
“Dislikin’ Dolly Parton is like dislikin’ puppies. It says more about you than it does about them,” Noah lectures as we make our way inside a bar called ‘Wild Boars’.
“I didn’t say I disliked her. Only that I think there are better country singers.”
“She’s an icon, Sammy. Respectfully, you’re wrong.”
I roll my eyes in response; there’s no point in arguing with Noah when he gets like this. Plus, he enjoys bickering too much. It’s like a sport for him.
The Wild Boar is a cliché of a country bar in Nashville, which I suppose is why we chose it. When I told Noah about Mum riding a mechanical bull while she was here, he declared it was going on the ‘must-do’ list for this trip. So, here we are.
Noah gets us both a beer from the bar, and I find a spot in the corner to people-watch.
“It’s busier than I thought it would be on a Thursday night,” I say to Noah as people begin piling into the bar wearing cowboy hats and boots.
“Yeah… about that...”
I arch an eyebrow at him in suspicion. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. But it might also be line dancing night…”
“Oh god,” I groan. “I thought we were just gonna ride the stupid bull and go home. We have to drive for like seven hours tomorrow!”
“I’m gonna give you a moment to hear yourself.” Noah takes a large sip of his beer, and yeah, okay. He has a point. I sound like an old man.
Half an hour later, the bar is filled with people, and a loud southern drawl comes through the speakers, asking everyone to make their way onto the dancefloor.
Noah returns from the bar with two shots. “For courage. Bottoms up!”
I neck the shot and wince at the burn in the back of my throat as it goes down. Fucking tequila.
The steps are easy to follow, so I pick them up quickly, but Noah appears to have two left feet and keeps going in the wrong direction. By the time we’re a few songs in, I’m shocked to find I’m enjoying myself. However, when I glance around me, Noah has disappeared, and I’m surrounded by about fifteen women. I gulp because most of them look to be at least twenty years older than me, and they survey me like lions eyeing up a tasty deer. Smiling politely at the few women closest to me, I make a swift escape and head to the men’s room.
The restroom is small: only one cubicle in the corner (seemingly occupied by two people from what I can hear), a trough-style urinal occupies most of the far wall, and a tiny sink by the door. It stinks of stale urine and beer, and as I walk, the soles of my feet stick to the tacky floor. Lovely. I can’t help but wrinkle my nose in disgust.
Not wanting to spend longer in here than necessary, I quickly piss in the urinal, and as I’m washing my hands, Noah walks out of the cubicle… with company.
Noah owns it, looking smug as ever, but the guy looks like a deer in headlights when he clocks that I’ve spotted them. He appears to be in his early thirties and he’s almost as big as I am, but with dark blonde hair and a week or so of scruff on his face.
“We were just… erm… having a private conversation,” the man stutters in their defence. Noah doesn’t help the situation by snickering.
“That’s my cousin.” I point to Noah. “So I’m gonna choose to believe that lie.” The man’s shoulders droop in relief, and he makes his excuses before dashing out the door. “Come on, let’s go ride a fuckin' bull so I can go to bed already.”
“Would you like a peppermint tea first, Grandma?” Noah asks
“You joke, but that sounds fuckin’ delightful, actually.”