Page 14 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
The sight of him advancing with what could easily be used as a weapon triggered every survival instinct I possessed. Before rational thought could intervene, a scream tore from my throat—high, piercing, and fueled by pure panic.
"Help!"
Teddy stopped dead in his tracks, his expression shifting from friendly interest to confusion and concern. He held up both hands in a gesture of harmlessness, the walking stick now clearly positioned as an offering rather than a threat.
"Whoa, hey, it's okay," he said, his voice gentle and reassuring. "I was just going to suggest you take this walkingstick. You really should have one when you're hiking alone out here."
My breathing came in rapid, shallow gasps as embarrassment began to replace terror. The stick in his hands looked exactly like what it was—a piece of fallen branch that would provide stability and protection during wilderness hiking.
"You can't be too careful in these woods," Teddy continued, extending the stick toward me again with slow, deliberate movements. "There are wild animals everywhere—bears, coyotes, even the occasional mountain lion. A good walking stick can mean the difference between a minor stumble and a serious injury if you encounter something unexpected."
He set the stick down halfway between us and stepped back, giving me space to approach it if I chose. His body language read as genuinely concerned rather than threatening, and I began to feel foolish for my dramatic overreaction.
"Sorry," I said, my voice shaky with residual adrenaline. "You startled me."
"No need to apologize. It's smart to be cautious when you're hiking alone." He shouldered his harvesting bag and gave me a friendly wave. "Enjoy the rest of your walk, Bernadette. And seriously, take the stick. Better safe than sorry."
With that, he headed back down the side trail he'd emerged from, disappearing into the forest as quietly as he'd appeared. I stood there for several minutes, my heart rate gradually returning to normal while I processed what had just happened.
Had I overreacted to an innocent encounter, or had my instincts correctly identified something threatening that my rational mind couldn't articulate? Teddy's explanation made perfect sense, and his behavior after my scream had been nothing but considerate and respectful.
But as I picked up the walking stick and continued along the trail, I couldn't shake the feeling that something about theinteraction had been off. Maybe it was the way he'd positioned himself to block my path, or the timing of his appearance just as I'd reached the most isolated section of the trail.
Or maybe I was just paranoid, seeing threats where none existed because I'd been living alone and depending on my own judgment for too long.
Either way, I found myself walking faster toward the section of trail that would loop back toward the campground, the walking stick clutched firmly in my hand and my attention focused more on the sounds behind me than the beauty surrounding me.
October 15, Wednesday
headspacethe airspace left in the barrel after filling, which allows for expansion
THE TOURbus hummed with the comfortable chatter of four retired teachers from Ohio as we wound through the countryside toward Goldenrod Distillery. Their enthusiasm was infectious—they'd done their research, asked thoughtful questions about mash bills and aging processes, and treated the entire experience as an educational adventure rather than an excuse to drink before noon.
"The barrel charring process is what creates those vanilla and caramel notes you taste in finished bourbon," I explained as familiar landscapes rolled past the windows. "Each distillery has its own preferred char level, from light toast to heavy char."
"Fascinating," murmured Helen, the group's apparent leader, scribbling notes in a small notebook. "And this next stop specializes in what type of production?"
"Small-batch bourbon with unique finishing techniques," I replied, though my attention had already begun drifting toward what awaited at Goldenrod. "They age some of their bourbon in wine barrels for additional complexity."
As we approached the rustic building, I felt the tightness in my chest that came with visiting Dylan's family distillery. The teachers gathered their purses and notebooks, chattering excitedly about the tasting they'd been anticipating, while I steeled myself for whatever emotional landmines might be waiting inside.
My phone buzzed with another text from Dylan, the fourth one this week.Missing Kentucky weather. How's your daygoing?His messages arrived with clockwork regularity—good morning texts, random thoughts about distillation he was learning in Texas, pictures of sunsets over Austin hills. He'd even called twice when his schedule allowed, our conversations lasting until his phone battery died or duty called him back to work.
But despite the steady contact, Portia's cutting words from our last encounter still echoed in my mind with painful clarity.Stray.Not part of the plan.Worm your way into places where you don't belong.The accusations had burrowed under my skin like splinters, making me question every interaction with Dylan's family.
"Shall we head inside?" I asked the teachers, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. "The tasting room has excellent air conditioning."
We entered the space with its exposed brick walls and copper distillation equipment gleaming behind glass partitions. The scents of aged wood and vanilla wrapped around us like a bourbon-scented embrace, but today they brought more melancholy than comfort.
Behind the polished oak bar stood a man I didn't recognize—middle-aged, competent-looking, but lacking Dylan's easy charm and encyclopedic knowledge of the family business. The substitute bartender moved with professional efficiency as he guided the teachers through their flight selections, but his explanations felt rehearsed rather than passionate.
I found myself studying his movements and comparing them to Dylan's theatrical flair, the way Dylan's eyes lit up when he described the marriage of grain and wood and time.
"And what about you, miss?" the bartender asked, noticing my distraction. "Care to try our signature bourbon?"
"Oh, I'm working," I replied automatically. "Tour guide."
The teachers scattered to explore the historical displays and retail area, leaving me to linger near the entrance while they absorbed the distillery's atmosphere. I tried to lose myself in reading the informational plaques, but my thoughts kept drifting to Dylan's voice on our last phone call, the way he'd described the different aging climates between Kentucky and Texas.
