Tacker (Arizona Vengeance 5)

We make the circle around the perimeter two more times, just silently dancing oh so close together.

When the music dies, Tacker brings me to a gentle stop. We’re in a crowd of people, and the moment has ended.

Mutually, we both start to pull away from each other, but it’s done in such an incredibly slow manner that there’s no denying we’re both silently saying we don’t want to let the other go.

This is just so wrong on my part.

Like that day we hugged in my kitchen on my birthday, my cheek scrapes against his, then our faces are close as our eyes connect.

“It would be so easy to kiss you right now,” he murmurs, and my head absolutely spins with not only the possibility, but also the terrible implications regarding my duty as his counselor.

“But we can’t,” he says, continuing to draw away until there’s a safe distance between us. He looks at me without apology. “It would be wrong.”

“So wrong,” I agree with utter disappointment in my voice.

He hears it. It makes him smile thinly, and disappointment is visible in his expression.

“You about ready to head home?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I reply, not wanting to leave him at all.

But I have to.CHAPTER 20TackerI’ve found that by wearing a bandana around my face, that horseshit doesn’t smell as bad. Or rather, it doesn’t permeate my nose as well.

I’m on the last stall in the gray barn, and I’m proud of myself. When I’d shown up at Shërim Ranch a few hours ago, Nora was in a counseling session in her office. She didn’t know I was coming because I’m not on her schedule, but I wasn’t overly bothered she wasn’t readily available. I’d come to do some volunteer work, deciding to spend some of my free time helping out around the ranch. Besides, I’ve started to really like Raul, and I don’t want to see him drop dead from overexertion.

At least that’s the excuse I’ve given myself for coming, so I never admit I really came to see Nora.

Even if it’s just a glimpse or a friendly wave of my hand.

I’m proud of the work I’ve done this morning because when I’d found Raul upon my arrival, he’d put me straight to work having to deal with the horses. While he gladly gave up shoveling shit duty in the stalls to me, he’d informed me that I’d have to lead each horse out on my own because “I don’t have time to be babysitting you, gringo.”

I’d snorted and laughed until I realized he wasn’t joking, then I’d reconsidered wanting to help out. Raul advised me that I’d have to lead the horse out of the stall in order to get in to clean it.

That meant I’d have to actually get near the horse. Touch it. Command it.

Not something I was really comfortable with.

I can’t explain my irrational unease around horses. I’d only been on the one with MJ when we were vacationing. Riding them on the beach seemed romantic to her, but my beast of an animal was huge and skittish around the waves coming in, constantly sidestepping and refusing to obey me. There was nothing fucking romantic about the experience at all.

But Raul showed me what to do. He calmly talked me through how to attach the lead to the halter, then guide the horse out of the stall. There were hooks on the wall with short leads to attach the horse along with a small hanging trough with hay they could munch on while I worked.

I noticed how he murmured Spanish words to the first horse he demonstrated on. The words were irrelevant, but his tone wasn’t. He was communicating to the animal, letting the horse know he cared for it and respected it. The horse followed his every command, and it gave me a little bit of confidence.

I’d managed to handle all five stalls on the one side, easily transferring each horse back and forth. By the time I got to the last one, I was thinking that perhaps I could be friends with these beasts.

“Good work, mijo,” Raul says from behind me.

After I finish sprinkling the last bit of fresh hay, I dust my hands off on the back of my jeans. I don’t even spare Raul a glance as I move out of the stall and over to the horse genially waiting for me to be done with his home.

Murmuring soft words under my breath, I run my hand along the brown fur on his back as I approach. Unclipping his rope from the hook, I lead the horse back into the stall, even guiding him around in a three-quarter circle so his head is facing the door. I do this mostly because I don’t want to be near his back end as I’m leaving, but when my eyes catch Raul as I ease out, his are filled with what I might even call a bit of pride.