Page 13 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
"It's getting late," I managed, pulling back before I could do something reckless. "Thank you for an unforgettable night."
The disappointment in his eyes was unmistakable, but he stepped back with the grace of someone who understood boundaries. "Text me to let me know you got home safe."
As I drove away from the festival grounds, the feel of his kiss still burning on my lips and the imprint of his body still warmagainst mine, I wondered how long I could maintain this careful distance between Dylan's world and my reality.
But tonight, with music still ringing in my ears and the memory of his arms around me, I didn't want to think about complications.
Tonight, I just wanted to hold onto the magic.
September 13, Saturday
tailsthe last part of the distillation run, often heavy with fusel oils and off-flavors
WHEN Ispotted Jett's pickup at the entrance of the campground instead of the tour bus, I squinted. Jett buzzed down the window. "Tour's cancelled. Bus is in the shop. Teresa's having a meltdown, but Marv said to tell you you're still getting paid."
"Okay. What are you doing here then?"
"I'm here to kidnap you," he said with a grin that transformed his usually serious expression. "You up for an adventure?"
Something about his enthusiasm was infectious. "Sure. Where are we going?"
"That's part of the adventure. You'll find out when we get there."
An hour later, as we wound through increasingly mountainous terrain dotted with autumn's first hints of color, road signs began appearing that made me question Jett's definition of adventure.
"Carter County Bigfoot Festival?" I read aloud as we passed a hand-painted wooden sign featuring a cartoonish Sasquatch waving cheerfully. "Seriously?"
"Dead serious," Jett replied, clearly enjoying my bewilderment. "You don't believe in Bigfoot?"
The small town of Olive Hill nestled in a valley surrounded by rolling hills that blazed with early fall colors—maples showing touches of gold, hickories hinting at bronze. The converted train depot sat at the town's heart, its vintage brick façade now surrounded by a parking lot transformed into festival grounds.
The scene that greeted us defied my expectations completely. Food trucks formed a semicircle around a makeshift stage where a bluegrass band was picking out harmonies that echoed off the surrounding hills. Children with painted faces that bore various interpretations of sasquatch features ran between vendor booths selling everything from "Squatch Jerky" to handcrafted wooden figurines.
"This is great," I said, taking in the cheerful chaos of families enjoying live music while browsing displays of cryptozoology "evidence" and local crafts.
"There are dozens of reported sightings in this area," Jett said with amused seriousness. "Maybe we'll see one before we leave."
He seemed completely at ease, greeting vendors and stopping to chat with other festival-goers. We sampled pulled pork sandwiches from a truck called "Big Foot Foods" and watched a Bigfoot calling contest where participants competed to produce the most authentic-sounding wilderness "whoop."
"You should enter," I told Jett after a particularly impressive performance from a bearded man in camouflage overalls.
"Maybe next year," he said, laughing.
I experienced a pang of regret that next year, I probably wouldn’t be here.
The costume contest brought out creative interpretations ranging from elaborate furry suits to children wrapped in brown bathrobes with construction paper feet. A local TV personality famous for survival shows judged the competition with theatrical seriousness that had the crowd roaring with laughter.
As afternoon shadows lengthened across the depot grounds, we found ourselves sitting on steps leading up to an old schoolhouse building that overlooked the festival area. We shared a funnel cake and listened to an acoustic duo perform covers of classic country songs.
"We should come back sometime and explore Carter Caves State Park," Jett said, gesturing toward the forested hills that surrounded us. "For my time and money, it's better than Mammoth Cave. Less crowded, more authentic cave formations, great hiking trails."
I studied his profile as he spoke, noting the way his eyes lit up when he talked about places he loved. There was something compelling about his quiet enthusiasm, his knowledge of hidden corners of Kentucky.
"Let's do that," I agreed, but knowing my time in Kentucky might be limited.
On the drive home, as the setting sun painted the hills in shades of amber and rose, I found myself reflecting on the day's unexpected pleasures.
"Thank you," I said as we merged back onto familiar highways. "I had no idea something like that existed."
