He’d been with Bolivar for over a week and the subtle psychic pushes he kept pressing on her had made him indispensable in her eyes. Wherever she went, she insisted he be right beside her, dressed in unrelieved black outfits she told him made him look meaner than a junk yard dog. “I am meaner than a junk yard dog,” he’d growled. “No one would dare accost me with you at my side,” she said, and that proved to be true. Despite the faithful venturing forward to bestow love and adoration on her, they kept their distance, the tall, muscular man beside her a strong deterrent not to come too close. The ministry—as Bolivar referred to it—had stayed in Macon for three more days after Robin Marks had joined it. Now the cavalcade of motor homes and semis and deuce-and-a-half trucks were on the highway, making the next jump—carnie talk for the move to the next engagement—to Ocala, Florida, where they would spend a week before heading to Dothan, Alabama. “I’m going to buy a trailer for your bike when we get to Kissimmee,”
