Page 30 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3

distiller's cut the portion of distillate selected for aging based on taste and quality

THE SEPTEMBER breeze carried the sweet scent of wildflowers and something indefinably green as I approached Jett's farmhouse, my stomach clenching with each step that brought me closer to his buzzing empire.

The white hive boxes dotted the meadow like oversized dice, and even from fifty yards away, I could see dark clouds of bees moving in purposeful patterns around their entrances.

Jett emerged from the barn carrying a folding table, his sleeves rolled up despite the morning chill. "Thanks for coming," he called out, setting the table under a shade tree that was—mercifully—well away from the active hives.

"This is as close as I'm getting," I announced, gesturing toward the distant bee boxes. "Fair warning."

He laughed. "Noted. We'll plan this whole thing from a safe distance."

I spread my notebook and printed research across the picnic table, the pages rustling in the autumn air. "Before you invest time and money in putting together a honey tasting event, I think you should advertise it first and see if there's actual interest. Test the waters."

"Smart thinking," he said, settling onto the bench across from me. "What are you picturing?"

"Social media posts and ads, maybe an ad on tourism websites.

Get people to sign up in advance so you know how much product to prepare.

" I flipped through my notes. "I've also been thinking about target markets—book clubs love unique meeting venues, cooking clubs would be interested in incorporating local honey into their recipes, nature enthusiasts would appreciate the educational component. "

Jett's eyes lit up as I outlined my ideas, the same enthusiasm I'd seen when Dylan talked about bourbon craftsmanship.

"You're really good at this," he said, leaning forward with obvious appreciation. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your help."

"You're welcome. I appreciate your help with my... personal project. But now let's call it even. You're off the hook."

His eyebrows went up. "You're giving up?"

"No. But I don't need your help."

He squinted. "What's wrong?"

The betrayal I'd been carrying since Sunday night rose in my throat like bile. "You told Naomi about my search for my father, and that I was living in my van."

His face went ashen. "What?"

"Portia Biggs knew all about it. She said Naomi was full of information when she interviewed the family." My voice was steady, but my hands trembled slightly as I spoke. "You must've told her during one of your... intimate conversations. Were you laughing at me?"

"Jesus, it wasn't like that." He reached across the table to clasp my hand, but I pulled it back.

"Bernadette—"

The sound of a vehicle approaching interrupted him. A dusty pickup truck pulled into the farmyard, and a familiar figure emerged—Tom Feldon, the agricultural liaison I remembered from the Kentucky Bourbon Festival panel. His weathered face broke into a grin as he approached.

"Jett! How's the honey business treating you?"

"Tom, good to see you." Jett stood to shake hands, but I caught the tension still lingering in his shoulders. "This is my friend Bernadette Waters. Bernadette, Tom Feldon from the agricultural extension office."

Friend. The word stung more than it should have, considering the conversation we'd just been having.

"Pleasure to meet you," Tom said, extending a calloused hand. His grip was firm, his smile genuine. "Any friend of Jett's is a friend of mine."

He handed Jett a manila folder thick with forms. "Annual compliance paperwork for your organic certification. Nothing too complicated, but it needs to be filed by October fifteenth."

The men fell into easy conversation about honey production and upcoming agricultural fairs while I organized my scattered notes, suddenly feeling like an intruder in their professional world. It was probably best to leave anyway. I didn’t want to hear Jett's excuses for betraying my trust.

Before I could gather my things, Tom tipped his cap and headed back toward his truck. The diesel engine turned over with a rumble, and he began backing down the gravel drive.

Then the truck stopped.

Tom rolled down his window and stuck his head out, his expression thoughtful. "You know, I've been racking my brain since Jett introduced us. Your last name sounded familiar. You wouldn't be any kin to Ginger Waters, by chance?"

The world seemed to tilt sideways. "I'm her daughter."

Tom's face split into a delighted grin. "Well, I'll be damned! Tell Ginger that a blast-from-the-past Tom Feldon said hello. We had us some good times back in the day."

Before I could find my voice to tell him that my mother was dead, before I could ask him any of the hundred questions suddenly burning in my throat, his truck was rolling down the drive again, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.

I stared after the disappearing vehicle, then turned to find Jett watching me with wide eyes that reflected my own amazement.

"Did that just happen?" I whispered.

"I think," Jett said slowly, "you just found another lead."

The anger between us evaporated like morning mist, replaced by the electric charge of unexpected discovery. Tom Feldon had known my mother. And unlike all the other leads that had led nowhere, this one had found me.