Page 16 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
Jett's hand found mine in the darkness, squeezing briefly before releasing. The gesture sent warmth flooding through my chest.
Stop it, I told myself firmly. He has Naomi. This was just a friendly outing, a distraction from my chaos. I was reading romance into darkness and proximity because my situation with Dylan had imploded so spectacularly.
Besides, nighttime made everything seem more intense, more meaningful. Things would look clearer tomorrow morning.
We rounded a bend where the trail opened into a small clearing surrounded by towering rock walls. The canyon walls amplified the owl calls, creating an acoustic chamber of wild sound. The group stood in reverent silence, absorbing the experience.
"Thank you for this," I whispered to Jett.
"You needed it," he whispered back. "We both did."
The hike concluded an hour later, the group filtering back to the parking area with reluctant goodbyes and murmuredappreciation for the experience. Jett and I walked to his truck in comfortable silence, the spell of the night slowly breaking.
On the drive back, we chatted about his honey business and the tour business. He asked if I'd gotten the results of the DNA photo test and I said I was still waiting. Reality crept in with the appearance of streetlights and traffic signs. Too soon we pulled into the campground.
"Doesn't it get cold in the van this time of year?"
I shrugged. "I have a thermal sleeping bag. It's pretty cozy."
"If you say so."
"I do," I said as I gathered my things. "Thanks again."
"Anytime." His smile was warm in the dashboard light. "See you tomorrow?"
"You betcha."
I watched his taillights disappear down the campground road, then climbed into my van. I locked the doors and shivered until I zipped myself into my sleeping bag. It wasn't exactly cozy, but it was tolerable.
I only had to sleep in my van for a few more weeks anyway.
November 16, Sunday
wood interactionthe extraction of flavors and tannins from the barrel into the bourbon
THE SUNDAYtour had been mercifully uneventful—a small group of couples celebrating a birthday, pleasant conversation, decent tips. I walked across the campground parking area toward my van as dusk settled over the property, ready to collapse into my narrow bed.
Then I spotted Teddy.
He stood near the driver's side of my van, bent slightly at the waist as if examining something underneath. His position—half-crouched, furtive—set off alarm bells in my head.
"Teddy?" I called out, picking up my pace. "What are you doing?"
He straightened and turned to face me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Surprise? Guilt? His weathered face settled into something neutral as I approached.
"Oh, Bernadette. There you are." He gestured vaguely. "I was just walking by and thought I smelled something coming from your van."
I stopped a few feet away, suddenly aware of how isolated this corner of the parking lot was. With the absence of the seasonal campers, there were now large stretches of empty gravel.
"Smelled something?" I repeated.
"Rotten eggs." Teddy nodded seriously. "That sulfur smell. Usually indicates a failing catalytic converter. Thought I should check it out before you drove anywhere and potentially broke down."
I moved closer to my van, sniffing the air around it. Nothing. Just the usual campground scents—woodsmoke from someone's firepit and the scent of meat.
"I don't smell anything," I said, watching him carefully.
Teddy scratched his head, his expression sheepish. "Huh. Must've been mistaken then. Maybe it was coming from somewhere else, got confused in the wind." He stepped away from my van, hands in his pockets. "Better safe than sorry though, right? Don't want you stranded on the side of the road."
