Page 13 of Bourbon Girl, part 1 of 6
"Dylan," Jett responded with a nod.
"Stop by again sometime," Dylan said to me as I climbed the bus steps. "I'll make you a proper bourbon cocktail when you're not working."
"I might do that."
Jett climbed in behind me, closed the door, and set the bus into motion.
"Making friends?" he asked dryly.
I settled into my seat and ignored the question, watching Goldenrod disappear behind us as we headed toward our final stop. The memory of Dylan's easy smile lingered, along with the unexpected warmth of finding someone who seemed genuinely interested in conversation… and in me.
July 10, Thursday
liquefactioninitial step where water and heat are applied to raw grains to create the mash
I JOLTEDawake. Thunder crashed overhead like freight trains colliding. Rain hammered against Ginger's metal roof with the fury of a thousand drumsticks, and somewhere above my head, a steady drip-drip-drip announced that my mobile home had sprung a leak.
I fumbled for my phone's flashlight and aimed it upward. A dark water stain spread across the ceiling like a bruise, and droplets fell rhythmically onto my sleeping bag. I groaned and rolled away from the growing puddle, pulling my pillow over my head.
This was a mistake. All of it.
The storm raged outside while I lay there cataloging my poor life choices. I should have stayed in Arizona, gotten a job at a call center or restaurant, saved every penny until I could finish my associate degree in hospitality management. At least then I'd have marketable skills and a plan that made sense. Instead, I was camping in a leaky van in Kentucky, chasing ghosts based on a dying woman's whispered confession.
What if my mother had been confused? What if she'd made it up entirely, some fever dream born of medication and grief? What if there was no bourbon-industry father to find?
My phone buzzed against the sleeping bag. Unknown number, probably a spam call, but I answered anyway.
"Bernadette? This is Eve Conner from the library."
I was suddenly alert. "Yes?"
"I'm sorry to call so early, but I couldn't sleep. That collar pin you showed me yesterday—I finally remembered where I'd seen it." Her voice carried excitement despite the early hour. "Workers at the Winged Horse pub wear them on their uniforms. The red Pegasus is their logo."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "The Winged Horse pub? Is it still in business?"
"Oh yes, been there for decades. It's on Versailles Road, near the university."
I was already scrambling for clothes, the van's leak forgotten. "Ms. Conner, thank you so much."
"I hope it helps. Good luck."
Two hours later, I stood outside the Winged Horse in the pouring rain, watching an older man unlock the heavy wooden doors. The pub's exterior was weathered brick with forest green trim, and sure enough, a red Pegasus with outstretched wings adorned the sign swaying in the wind.
"We don't open until eleven," the man called.
"Are you the owner?"
"Yes. Frank Goetz."
"Please, I just need to ask about someone who might've worked here years ago. It's important."
He studied my soaked appearance and softened. "Come in before you catch pneumonia."
Inside, the pub smelled of old wood and stale beer, with undertones of furniture polish. Dim lighting revealed dark paneling, vintage liquor ad posters, and red vinyl booths. Frank flipped switches behind the bar, bringing the space to life with warm light.
"Coffee?" he offered, already moving toward an industrial machine.
"That would be wonderful."
