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I'D BEEN driving for three days, stopping to sleep in Walmart parking lots, which are welcoming of transient RV owners and long-haul truckers.

Drafting off the retailer's tolerance, I parked my ancient Chevy van in far corners to stretch out on a roll-up mattress on top of boxes that held my meager belongings.

The nights were unnerving—I acknowledged I was making myself a target for any serial killer with a Slim Jim tool—but ultimately fatigue won out and I slept.

When the store's doors opened in the morning, I bolted for the restrooms to relieve my aching bladder and splash my face and arms with sink water.

I repaid the hospitality by stocking up on snacks before setting off again.

At long last, an exuberant "Welcome to Kentucky!" sign loomed ahead on the rural interstate like a promise. Come in and put your feet up! Good things happen here!

I hoped so. I didn't have much of a plan for finding my father, but I trusted the job I'd landed over the phone with Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours would be a springboard for my search.

I consoled myself with the reminder that I was used to winging it.

My earliest memory was of packing toys in boxes and moving somewhere different.

My entire life had prepared me for this scavenger hunt.

The orange van wheezed and rattled like a chain-smoker climbing stairs, but it was still rolling.

The late afternoon sun streamed through my bug-splattered windshield, cooking the interior.

Sweat dripped between my shoulder blades.

I didn't dare turn the air conditioner up past the lowest setting because I didn't want to tax the engine—or my gas budget.

I lowered the driver side window a few inches in hopes of creating a breeze.

The air that whooshed in was hot and sticky but scented with something sweet.

Honeysuckle, maybe? I supposed I would find out.

Kentucky was nothing like I'd expected. Sure, I'd done my research—bourbon capital of the world, birthplace of KFC, home to the Derby—but I wasn't prepared for the sheer, ridiculous beauty of this place.

The landscape couldn't be more opposite the parched brown backdrop of Arizona.

Rolling hills stretched out like a lush carpet, dotted with horses that looked as if they'd been placed there by a tourism board.

The grass wasn't actually blue, which was mildly disappointing, but it was so green it practically vibrated with life.

I fiddled with the radio dial, hoping to find something that wasn't twangy guitars and heartbreak, but apparently Kentucky had made a collective decision that only country music would be permitted within state lines.

A woman was currently singing about her man leaving her for his truck, and I couldn't help but think at least she'd known him long enough to be hurt by his betrayal. That was more than I could say.

Romantic relationships weren't my strong suit.

Truthfully, relationships in general weren't my strong suit.

My hands tightened on the steering wheel as a wave of doubt crashed over me.

What exactly was I doing here? I'd packed my entire life—which, let's be honest, wasn't much—into a van that predated the Obama administration and driven two thousand miles on the strength of a dying woman's whispered confession.

The memory of my sweet mother on her deathbed brought scalding tears to my eyes and took my thoughts to a darker place.

This wasn't hope; this was lunacy with a GPS.

I might make a spectacular fool of myself.

What if I actually found him? What if, against all odds, my amateur detective work paid off and I tracked down the mysterious bourbon man who'd contributed half my DNA?

The optimistic part of me—the part that was clearly suffering from heat stroke—imagined a tearful reunion, explanations, maybe even a father-daughter bonding montage set to uplifting music.

The realistic part of me, the part that had spent twenty-seven years observing the world's general indifference to my existence, whispered a more likely outcome.

What if he took one look at me and wished I'd stayed lost?

What if he had a real family now, complete with legitimate children who knew their father's middle name and had never lived in a van?

In the rear-view mirror, I caught sight of my lank dark blond hair and nondescript brown eyes, eyes that reflected apprehension. I could end up lonelier than I already was, which seemed mathematically impossible but emotionally terrifying.

I turned up the radio and kept driving, soaking in the sights.

Black rail fence lined expansive pastures broken up with picturesque barns.

Fields of corn and other plants I didn't recognize stretched on for days.

The rail fence sometimes gave way to gorgeous stacked stone fences.

I passed a few crowded roadside produce stands.

Homes ranged from sprawling to spare. Traffic thinned as I turned onto progressively smaller roads leading to my destination, a campground on the outskirts of Lexington.

In the waning daylight, a wooden sign announced "Happy Trails Campground - Your Home Away From Home.

" I flinched. Home was wherever I parked this rust bucket, which made everywhere and nowhere home simultaneously.

But my reservation was paid through December, and the nice lady on the phone had promised full hookups and Wi-Fi, which was more than I'd had in some actual apartments.

I turned into the gravel driveway, my tires crunching pleasantly over the rocks as tents and RVs came into view, situated among soaring hardwood trees.

Whatever happened next, at least I was here. Kentucky stretched out before me, beautiful and intimidating and full of secrets I was determined to uncover.