BOURBON GIRL, part 6 of 6

December 1, Monday

bottling the final step in bourbon production where the aged spirit is filtered, proofed, and packaged

THE PAIN brought me around—a throbbing agony pulsing through my skull like a hammer striking an anvil. Then came awareness: rough gravel scraping against my back, cold air biting through my jacket, and the horrifying realization that my mouth was sealed shut.

Teddy Reeves, my creepy neighbor at the Happy Trails Campground, had knocked me out with a club and put duct tape over my mouth.

My eyes flew open to a kaleidoscope of stars and shadows. The wind whipped branches overhead. I tried to scream, but only a muffled sound escaped.

I was moving. No—being dragged. He was kidnapping me, taking me somewhere out of earshot to do God knows what to me. Panic exploded in my chest.

My heels bounced over the uneven ground as his strong hands gripped me under the arms, hauling me backward across the campground. I thrashed, kicking out wildly, but my sneakers found only empty air.

"Stop fighting," Teddy hissed. "Why couldn't you just die from the Doll's Eye?"

So the poisoning wasn't accidental. Had Marilyn known?

I tried to wrench free, but his grip only tightened. I was being pulled farther from the lights of the few occupied campers, deeper into the darkness.

The woods loomed ahead—a wall of black trees marking the boundary of the campground property. Once he got me in there, I'd be completely alone with him.

I bucked harder, throwing my weight sideways. My elbow connected with something soft—his stomach maybe—and he grunted.

"I told you to mind your own business," Teddy growled. "You convinced Marilyn to leave, didn't you? You're going to tell me where she is."

Even as my mind spun, I registered relief that Marilyn had escaped him. My lungs burned as I struggled to breathe through my nose. I kicked backward and my heel connected with his shin. He stumbled and cursed, but maintained his grip. The tree line was maybe twenty feet away now. Fifteen. Ten.

Then suddenly another figure materialized from the shadows and tackled Teddy from the side with enough force to send us both sprawling.

Teddy released me as he went down hard. I rolled away, gasping against the tape, my vision swimming as the two men grappled on the ground.

Through my disorientation, I recognized the second man. Boyd Biggs.

What was Dylan's father doing here… at midnight?

Boyd landed a solid punch to Teddy's jaw that produced a sickening crack. Teddy crumpled, going limp against the ground.

For a moment, Boyd stood over him, breathing heavily, his fists still clenched. Then he turned to me.

"Bernadette." He knelt and helped me remove the tape from my mouth. It was painful but the relief of being able to breathe freely again was overwhelming. I gulped air.

"Are you okay?" Boyd steadied me as I sat up.

"My head," I managed, my voice hoarse and shaking. "He hit me with some kind of club."

Boyd's jaw tightened. He pulled out his phone and punched in a number. "I need police and an ambulance at Happy Trails Campground. A woman's been assaulted. The attacker is unconscious."

I heard someone approaching through the darkness. Lou Oney emerged, wearing a bathrobe and carrying a tire iron, his eyes wide as he looked from me to Teddy's prone form.

"Bernadette, what happened?"

"He attacked me," I said.

"Watch him," Boyd said. "The police are on their way."

Lou nodded, positioning himself over Teddy with the tire iron at the ready.

The police arrived within minutes, then the ambulance. One officer took my statement and Boyd's while the other roused Teddy, then handcuffed him. A paramedic checked me over, then I was loaded inside the ambulance, despite my protests.

"You could have a concussion," Boyd offered. "I'll follow the ambulance."

I was too numb to object, but ambulances scared me—they dredged up memories of my mother's final days. During the ride, I answered the paramedic's questions while he shined a light in my eyes and held up fingers for me to count.

At the hospital I was hustled from room to room for a CT scan, an MRI, a vision test, and a hearing test. The sun had risen by the time a doctor came to give me a prognosis.

"You have a mild concussion," she announced. "Take it easy for twenty-four hours. I'll give you something for your headache." She smiled. "I'll let your dad know you're ready to go."

My eyes widened when I realized she meant Boyd. "Oh, he's not… I mean, he might be—er… thanks."

When I exited to the waiting room, Boyd was there, his face drawn with exhaustion. He pushed to his feet. "How do you feel?"

"I'm tired, but okay."

He nodded. "Good. That's good."

"Thank you for what you did," I said. "But why were you at the campground? In the middle of the night?"

Something flickered across his face—guilt? Regret? He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded paper, the edges crisp and official-looking.

"I was coming to give you this." He held it out to me. "The results from the DNA test."

My heart stuttered. With trembling hands, I unfolded the paper.

Probability of paternity: 0%. The alleged father is excluded as the biological father of the tested child.

The words swam before my eyes. Boyd Biggs wasn't my father.

Relief and disappointment crashed through me simultaneously.

"After I shared the results with my family," Boyd said, "I wanted to tell you in person."

I squinted. "At midnight?"

He shifted foot to foot. "Jessica and I argued, so I went for a drive, and kept driving. I wanted to see where you were staying, how you were living."

"So you were just going to leave the results on the windshield of my van?"

He had the grace to blush. "And I wanted to give you this." He pulled out his wallet and removed a check, then extended it to me.

Confused, I took it and scanned the amount. My eyes widened. "Fifty thousand dollars? What is this?"

"I want to help you."

"I can't accept this," I said, pushing it back into his hand.

"Consider it an investment in your future. Get yourself settled somewhere."

Somewhere else was the implication. And I couldn't blame him considering how I'd blown up his family. But I wasn't about to take the man's money.

I tore the check in half, then handed it back.

"Thank you, but no. I can take care of myself.

" As I said the words, I knew they were true.

I would be okay even if I never found my biological father, because my mother had prepared me to deal with the world.

"I'm truly sorry for all the grief I've caused your family.

The reason I did the facial DNA test on my own is because I wanted to avoid a mistake. "

He nodded. "We'll survive."

"It's strange that the facial test was so definitive," I ventured. "You had a brother. Could he have known my mother?"

Pain registered on his face. "No. James was in prison when you were… conceived. And he died shortly after he got out."

I nodded. Octavia Guy would've already checked those timelines, but I wanted to be sure.

Boyd gestured to the exit. "I'll drive you back to the campground."

But something about being in a car with him felt overwhelming. The emotions of the night pressed down on me—the attack, the rescue, the DNA results.

"Actually," I said, pulling out my phone, "I should call someone. But thank you. You saved my life tonight."

Boyd studied my face for a long moment, then relented with a nod. "Alright. Goodbye, Bernadette."

I watched him leave, still processing his puzzling behavior. But after the thump to my head and the lack of sleep, my brain was sluggish. My fingers shook as I typed a text to Jett: I'm at St. Joseph Hospital ER. Can you come to pick me up?

His response was immediate: On my way.

I sank into a chair to wait. The night had been a nightmare, but at least one question had been answered.

Boyd Biggs wasn't my father.

Which meant I was back to square one, with time running out.