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Daisy stood there, rain plastering her shirt to her skin. She was holding a lantern.
That night—and I will take the details of that night to my grave—was the hottest, sweatiest, most gloriously sinful experience of my entire life. It involved the kitchen table, a jar of honey, a John Deere cap used in ways John Deere never intended, and sounds that scared the horses.
Two days later, I was speeding down a dusty gravel road in rural Kentucky, my Audi scraping against potholes the size of small moons. The GPS died. My cell signal was a ghost. And that’s when I saw her.