Tacker (Arizona Vengeance 5)

“I’m sorry,” Tacker says awkwardly.

With a smile, I press on. “I’ll never forget March 3rd. It was my birthday. Like I said… I was eleven. And Besjana had promised to make me a shendetlie, which was my favorite dessert.”

“But that didn’t happen.” Tacker stops walking, turning to face me.

“No, that didn’t happen.” I look off into the distance, the sun starting to hang low over the foothills. When I shift to face Tacker, I just lay it out for him. “Serb forces came into our village and went house to house, rounding up suspected members of the rebel group. My entire family was taken into the village square, along with other suspected rebel families. They separated the males from the females, then promptly opened fire on all the males.”

“Even…” Tacker says, but his voice fades quickly.

“Even my seven-year-old brother, Pjeter.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, punching his hands down into his jeans. I’m heartened by the empathy I see on his face. If I had to guess, it’s not an expression he’s probably worn a lot lately.

I give a slight cough to clear my throat, because it gets even worse. “My sister and I were given to the soldiers. Besjana was repeatedly raped, often right in front of me, and by multiple men. I was made to cook and clean for them.”

“Christ,” Tacker growls. He starts to take a step toward me before faltering. I can tell he’s not sure what type of support to offer, so I smile to excuse him from the burden.

“One night, a drunken soldier was getting ready to take his turn on Besjana. I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I didn’t care if I was putting myself at risk, so I screamed at him to leave her alone. And he only laughed. Then he taunted me. Went so far as to take out his pistol, put it right in my hand, and dared me to shoot him if I wanted to stop it so bad.”

A low rumble emanates from Tacker’s chest, and he looks sick to his stomach.

“And I couldn’t,” I admit without dropping my gaze. It’s a shame I’ve learned to own over the years of my healing. “I was so scared. That I’d miss. That I’d hit the mark and another soldier would kill me. It didn’t matter the reason—I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t save Besjana.”

“You were eleven,” Tacker bites out with a grimace. “You couldn’t have done anything.”

“I know,” I say softly, freely giving him another smile so he knows I’m okay. I turn to head back on the trail toward the paddocks. “I’ve come to learn that. It was part of my healing and recovery from the massive guilt I suffered.”

“But you escaped,” he says, seemingly wanting to leave the bad parts of the story behind and push me forward in the narrative.

I could tell him so many more awful details, but it’s not necessary. So my smile turns brighter, because there was a beginning to my happy ending. “A NATO worker smuggled me out of the camp one night. She was at the end of her tour and leaving for home soon. Her name was Helen Wayne. She was from here… in Phoenix. She adopted me, and that’s when I became Nora Wayne.”

“And Besjana?” Tacker asks, stuttering only slightly in the pronunciation of her name.

“She took her own life,” I say sadly. “Long before Helen got me out of there.”

We walk along in silence for a few moments. Finally, he almost whispers, “I don’t even know what to say to that. In all the things I’d imagined, that didn’t even come close.”

I stop, reaching out to touch his forearm once again. Tacker comes to a halt, regarding me curiously. “I didn’t tell you that to try to one-up you on the trauma scale or to prove you can survive something awful. I only told you so you could see it’s possible to not only push past it, but also to flourish.”

He just stares.

So I repeat, with emphasis. “I have flourished, Tacker. And so can you, if you want to.”

He swallows hard, letting out a long breath.

“I’ve laid a lot on you today,” I say, hearing the slight hint of apology in my tone. “And it’s taken up almost our entire hour. No charge for today, but, if you can, come back tomorrow. We’ll talk about MJ then, okay?”

He doesn’t balk at my demand. Instead, Tacker nods. “Okay.”CHAPTER 8TackerThe breeze lifts MJ’s blonde hair where it suspends, making it float across her face. She scrapes her fingers across her forehead, grabs the errant locks, and tucks them behind her ear. It’s hopeless as the wind merely pulls them free to whip them around once again.

“This was a stupid idea.” She laughs, turning her head to look at me. My hands are clenched tight on the pommel of the saddle, my legs gripping the sides of the horse in a death grip.