Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(61)

"No, sir, honest. My girlfriend's sick, and I ran out of gas. I need to get her someplace where she can rest. And I have money." He reached for his pocket when he heard the distinctive click of a shotgun hammer cocking back.

"Reach slow, or lose your arm. Dis here is church property, and we don't need no junkies like you coming—"

"She isn't a junkie, and neither am I. Go see her for yourself. We just need a little help."

The minister glared at him before lifting the barrel slowly to the sky, gave Rider a hard scowl, then begrudgingly came down the steps. "C'mon, Duke," he said to his dog. "Let's go see what all the ruckus is about."

But the dog refused to budge.

The minister swung around to face Rider.

"Whatcha do to my dog?"

Rider held up his hands again.

"Nuthin', sir. Please. You can see I'm not armed."

"How I know it ain't a Klan ambush?"

"You don't," Rider said, defeated. He turned and walked away.

"You tell her to come 'round to the back, and I'll wait here. Won't call the sheriff right off, if everything's on the up and up. I don't like dealin' wit da police, truth be tol', but I gots something fer ya, if yous a liar."

Rider nodded, relieved.

He found Tara where he'd left her, leaning against the fence. "Sweetheart, there's an old preacher back there who would like to see you. He's scared of an ambush."

She stared up at him and her eyes told him that she immediately understood. Without a word she took his hand and walked with him to meet the preacher.

When the preacher saw them his expression went from shock to fury in a matter of seconds. He rubbed the gray stubble on his dark walnut face and looked at Rider hard while addressing Tara.

"You need me to call the sheriff, baby?"

A plump older woman wrapped in a blue terry-cloth robe appeared at the door beside the preacher. "Oh, my Lord in Heaven, look at her. Clothes all tore up and dirty. Oh, baby, come on in. We'll he'p ya. We'll call yo' momma. Just give us an address, and we'll git you home. Sweet Jesus, he—"

"No," Tara said quickly. "I'm fine. He's a friend."

"How old are you, baby?" the preacher said, now completely focused on Tara.

"Eighteen, sir. And we just need some gas so we can be on our way."

"He got you on drugs?"

"No," she said. She took off the sunglasses and squinted. "I have a migraine, that's why I have on the glasses." Before she could say another word, she bent over and retched.

"You in trouble, girl?" the wife asked, coming off the porch.

Tara shook her head as tears spilled down her cheeks and Rider longed to hug her, but the situation was too fragile for that.

"No, ma'am, I'm not. I just ate something last night that didn't agree with me. That's why he's taking me to my grandma's. My momma died."

"I'm so sorry to hear about your momma, chile," the preacher said. "I got a gas can in the house. You all can come in, wash your faces, get some coffee or something to settle your stomach. Idell, you gots some aspirins in there for a headache, right?"

"Yeah, c'mon in here while my husband fetches some gas."

Rider glanced at the couple and the dog, then looked at Tara. "The dog, ma'am, it scared her."

"Oh, that old mutt…" The preacher's wife gave the creature a disparaging glance. "Shoo, you old thang. Git!" The dog scampered deep into the house and the wife let out a long sigh. "C'mon. It's all right, now."

"You go in and sit down for a while, all right?" Rider waited for Tara's response, noting her hesitation. "I have some money," he said and tried to hand a fifty-dollar bill to the preacher.

The man declined it with a wave and turned to go into the house and dress. "I'll be back in twenty minutes. You all go on up to the kitchen and set down. If she can stomach it, maybe a little breakfast?" He studied Tara. "Or maybe just some ginga tea to settle her stomach."



It felt like needles were stabbing her behind her eyes. All she could do was breathe deeply and put her head down on the kitchen table as the preacher's wife prattled on and on about who in her family had suffered migraines, and expounded upon her understanding of light sensitivity.

Then the older woman began going into the Scriptures about wanton behavior and the sins of the flesh. The four aspirin weren't helping. However, she was extremely grateful that the elderly couple had taken them in. Jake Rider nodded respectfully as he rubbed her back. He'd told the old preacher she was his girlfriend. Interesting. She liked the concept very much. But why had he said that?

Rider declined the tea, but downed two cups of black coffee. He intermittently forced her to take two sips of the wicked tea brew. All she wanted to do was get the sickening smell of the dirt off her. The walls of the tiny house felt like they were closing in on her, and an anvil-like pressure was caving in her chest. Her condition was getting worse, and she knew it. Soon she wouldn't be able to touch hallowed earth, or withstand the names of the Most High. Sunlight was draining, making black spots dance before her eyes. She wondered how long it would take them to get to New Mexico by bike?