Tacker (Arizona Vengeance 5)

“I googled you, too,” he says quietly. “Not much there.”

“My credentials are all on the website,” I reply vaguely, although I don’t think that’s what he means.

Tacker shakes his head, looking me dead in the eye. “Raul said something horrible happened to you.”

Ahh… Raul… that stinker.

I nod, a genuine smile on my face so he knows I’m not mad about Raul’s comment. I have nothing to hide, and my past has greatly benefited me in what I do today as a counselor. “Would it make you feel better to know about it?” I ask tentatively.

I don’t want to assume I know what he needs.

He blinks in surprise, his chin jerking inward as he shakes his head. “No. I wasn’t trying to be nosy or anything. I’m just… not buying the whole happiness and hope stuff. That old dude—”

“Raul,” I interrupt. “I’ll introduce you to him soon.”

“Can’t wait,” he replies with a grimace. “He was so charming.”

I can’t help but laugh. Raul can be very charming, but he can be an ass when he wants, too.

“He’s the best man I know,” I say firmly, making him aware I have a great allegiance to my friend.

Tacker’s expression seems dismissive, as if Raul isn’t something he wants to talk about. I’m surprised again when he blurts, “What happened to you?”

He does want to know. He’s convinced my happiness today is either a sham or that my pain wasn’t all that difficult to handle. While I don’t feel a need to defend myself or my history, I do think it can open a doorway to mutual trust with Tacker.

I push out of my chair, then sweep my hand toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go take a walk.”

Tacker stands, too, but he seems unsure. “I don’t need the walk. I’m good right here.”

“You might not,” I say with a smile. “But you asked about what happened to me and while I have worked hard to overcome my traumas, it doesn’t mean they don’t still pinch at times. I like being outdoors. It makes me feel more peaceful.”

Tacker shakes his head, slightly panicked. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

I move around my desk, put my hand on his lower back, and give him a gentle push toward the door. “Yes… I do need to tell you.”I lead Tacker past the small paddocks, the barn, and along the large pasture to a trail used for the horses. No one is scheduled to be riding out here at this time, so we’ll have absolute privacy. The trail is mostly rocky terrain over gentle hills. The ranch itself is over a hundred acres of land, dotted with giant saguaros, mesquite, palo verdes, and ironwoods.

We walk for a good half a mile, and I occupy the time by telling him the history of the ranch. I explain how I bought it out of foreclosure, then about my dream to use the horses to reach people who are hiding behind walls. When I point out the flora and fauna of the Sonoran Desert, I’m pleased when he asks a few questions, his curiosity piqued. I want him relaxed.

“Keep your eyes peeled for rattlesnakes and scorpions,” I say with a sly smile.

Tacker actually jumps sideways as if I were pointing one out, shooting me a glare. “I thought you said this walk was to help reduce anxiety.”

Laughing, I pat him on the arm, not breaking stride. “I did. But I’ve got boots on. I’m not anxious at all. Your ankles are a little exposed with those tennis shoes, though.”

Another glare, and I toss my head back to laugh. “I’m just teasing. Any creatures prone to bite aren’t going to be on the trail. It’s well used, and they’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”

He seems unsure of my explanation, but his stride doesn’t falter.

I pick up an old stick laying across the trail, about three feet in length, and carry it with us. Just in case we come upon a lazy snake I need to push out of the way, but I won’t let Tacker know that.

“Okay,” I finally say after taking a breath. “You want to know about me.”

He doesn’t reply, and I take that as his tacit agreement I should proceed forward.

“I was born in Albania, but my parents moved us to the Drenica Valley in central Kosovo when I was extremely young. I don’t even remember Albania really.”

“Your accent is more pronounced right now,” he points out, and I nod.

This is never easy to talk about.

“Do you know anything about the war in Kosovo?” I ask.

Tacker lowers his head as he shakes it. “Can’t say I do. Just what I’ve heard on the news here and there.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” I tell him. “All you need to know is that I was eleven when war came to Drenica. My name was Nora Cervadiku then, and my father and grandfather were part of a Kosovo Albanian group of rebels fighting against the Serbs who controlled the region. I had an older sister, Besjana, who was fifteen and a younger brother, Pjeter, who was just seven. Besjana was only four years older than me, but she acted very much like my mother, who had died giving birth to Pjeter.”