Page 15 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
I pushed hash browns around my plate, processing. "Do you think he married her for the business?"
"I think he married her for a lot of reasons, and the business was probably one of them. That doesn't make it purely mercenary—people marry for all kinds of practical considerations alongside love." Octavia angled her head. "Does any of this help with whatever you're planning to do?"
I thought about it, chewing slowly. "It helps me see him as human. Not just this untouchable figure of bourbon royalty, but someone who started somewhere else. Someone who lost his family too."
"Just remember," Octavia said gently, "upstanding citizen doesn't mean perfect person. Good family man doesn't mean he didn't make mistakes. If he is your father, he still walked away from your mother while she was pregnant."
The truth of that settled like lead in my stomach.
November 15, Saturday
expansion and contractionthe movement of bourbon into and out of wood due to temperature shifts
JETT PULLEDthe bus into the campground parking area as the last rays of daylight faded behind the bare trees. I gathered my jacket and clipboard, already mentally preparing for another evening alone in my van.
"Hey." Jett caught my arm before I could descend the steps. "You up for an adventure tonight?"
I turned, surprised. "What kind of adventure?"
"The kind that gets you out of your head for a few hours." His smile was encouraging. "Change into warm, rugged clothes—layers, sturdy shoes. I'll pick you up in an hour."
"Jett, I don't know if—"
"One hour," he repeated firmly. "Trust me."
I found myself nodding. Maybe a distraction was exactly what I needed after spending the entire day in a fog of anxiety and uncertainty.
Back in my van, I changed into jeans, hiking boots, a thermal shirt layered under a fleece pullover. When Jett's pickup truck pulled up exactly an hour later, he was dressed similarly. A backpack sat in the truck bed beside a cooler.
"Where are we going?" I asked as I climbed into the passenger seat.
"Carter Caves. There's an Owl Prowl Night Hike tonight." His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.
We stopped at a drive-through for burgers and fries, eating as Jett navigated the darkening roads toward the park. The food was greasy and satisfying, and the casual conversation aboutnothing important felt surprisingly normal. For the first time in days, I wasn't thinking about Boyd Biggs or DNA tests.
Carter Caves appeared in the headlights—a rustic park entrance with wooden signs and a small gathering area where about a dozen other people stood bundled against the November cold. A woman in ranger uniform and a heavy coat held a clipboard and a powerful flashlight.
"Welcome to the Owl Prowl," she announced as we joined the group. "I'm Ranger Susan, and tonight we'll be hiking the Box Canyon Trail to experience our resident owl population. We have barred owls, great horned owls, and if we're lucky, maybe an eastern screech owl."
She distributed small flashlights to those who needed them, instructing us to use red-filtered light to preserve our night vision. Then we set off single file along a narrow trail that wound between limestone formations and through dense forest.
The darkness was absolute beyond our small circles of red light. Tree branches created skeletal silhouettes against the star-scattered sky. Our footsteps crunched on fallen leaves, and our breath created small clouds in the cold air.
"Barred owls are most vocal in late fall," Ranger Susan explained in a hushed voice as we walked. "They're territorial and call to establish dominance. Their vision is specially adapted—they can see in light levels we would consider complete darkness."
As if on cue, a deep call echoed through the trees.Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you-all?
The group stopped, listening. Another owl answered from a different direction, the calls overlapping in an eerie duet. Goosebumps rose on my arms despite my layers.
The trail narrowed, forcing us to walk closer together. Jett's shoulder brushed against mine as we navigated around a fallen log. His hand appeared at my elbow, steadying me.
"Careful," he murmured. "Root system ahead."
We climbed over the obstruction together, his hand warm through my sleeve. When we continued walking, he stayed close, our arms occasionally touching as we moved through the darkness.
Ranger Susan pointed out owl pellets on the ground—compact masses of undigested fur and bones—and explained hunting techniques. She described how owls' asymmetrical ear placement allows them to pinpoint prey with extraordinary accuracy. But I found my attention divided, hyperaware of Jett's presence beside me.
Another call rang out, closer this time. A great horned owl, Ranger Susan whispered. We stood motionless, waiting. The massive bird swooped overhead, silent as a ghost despite its size. Several people gasped.
