Tacker (Arizona Vengeance #5)(10)

“You don’t like her offering you any hope of a better future because you don’t think anyone could possibly understand what you’ve been through.”

I grit my teeth. He’s not far off the mark. I get she has education and experience in handling people like me, but it’s insulting she thinks she can put me in a brighter spot without knowing a fucking thing about my pain and misery.

It’s going to be hard to trust her now for just that reason.

“Trust me, amigo,” the old man says as he ambles toward me. When we’re a few feet apart, he tips his head and pushes the brim of his hat back a bit. I can now see his eyes clearly. “Nora has suffered horrors you can’t even imagine. I don’t know what your issues are, but don’t think that woman doesn’t understand pain. She’s lost more than a human being should be made to and suffered more than anyone deserves, and she’s come out of it still smiling and hopeful. You should give her the benefit of the doubt.”

I have to widen my stance just a tad, so my knees don’t buckle under the weight of what he just said. He hadn’t divulged one damn personal thing about Nora, yet I can tell by the tone of his voice that something horrific has happened to her.

It’s not something I’d considered.

Do I think I’m the only person in the world who has suffered?

Fuck no. I know I’m not.

Had I thought the woman with the bright smile and eternal hope of healing had survived something brutal?

Not in a million years, and now I don’t know what the fuck to think about her.





CHAPTER 5




Nora


While I’d have preferred to ride Starlight or Ming up the hill to the tiny cemetery, the four-wheel gator does the job in a pinch. I turn it off, engage the safety brake, and climb out.

It’s not much of a cemetery, just a handful of old grave markers for the family that held this ranch for a few generations before I bought it at auction. It sits under a copse of palo verdes, which provide enough shade that sparse grass grows.

Set off to the side from the other plots is the one I’ve come to visit.

Helen Wayne

June 7, 1958 – April 23, 2017

Beloved Mother and Savior.

“Hi, N?n?,” I murmur as I sit cross-legged on her grave.

Helen Wayne was as American as apple pie, but when she first met me, my English was incredibly broken as we just didn’t use it a lot. She asked me to call her N?n?—Albanian for Mother or Momma—and it never felt strange to me. Even though I’d had a mother at one point in my life, I never questioned calling her that.

I would have done anything she asked of me.

“I had a busy day today,” I say quietly, picking at a blade of thin grass. “Got two interesting new clients. Terrance is just a kid—a real punk, actually. You’d totally love him. He’s so hungry for genuine contact, but he’s scared to move on it. And Tacker is this guy who has some deep-seated issues he doesn’t want to talk about. He’s been forced into counseling, and you and I both know that often doesn’t end well. Regardless, I made him shovel shit today since he wouldn’t open up.”

My mother would have so appreciated that but then again, she pretty much thought anything I did was the best thing ever. Not sure there could have ever been a prouder mother in the world than Helen Wayne, and I can feel her presence looking over me at all times.

I can’t feel that with my original family. Not that strongly, anyway. Because of my faith, I believe they are in Heaven, right alongside Helen, but the bond fades a little more every year. Probably because I’d spent so long blocking their memories out.

My eyes don’t water up with grief anymore over losing Helen, my adoptive mom. We had a good, full life together, and she was in a lot of pain from the cancer at the end. It was a blessing when she slipped away, clutching my hand in hers.

But, God, I miss her so much. The woman who is personally responsible for all I am today.

The woman who actually saved my life, then built it into something that was far greater than I ever could have imagined based on where I’d come from.

In the distance from the direction of the main ranch house, the dinner bell clangs. Smiling, I push up to my feet. Raul loves ringing that damn thing, even though he could have just as easily sent me a text to tell me to come on in and eat.

“Okay, N?n?… His Lordship is calling for my presence at the supper table,” I say, not the least bit abashed by talking to her grave. “Sorry I can’t stay longer, but really… not much more to report. I’ll come back in a few days.”

I get no response besides a slight breeze from the west. Is it her answering me? Who knows, but I like to think so.

“Love you,” I say before turning and heading to the Gator.


“Wash your hands,” Raul orders me as soon as I walk into the kitchen. He’s stirring taco meat in a pan, and I can smell fresh corn shells roasting in the oven. On the counter, several spice bottles are lined up, because Raul would rather die than use pre-packaged stuff.

I head to the sink and give my hands a good scrub, my stomach rumbling with hunger. For lunch, I had a package of peanut butter and cheese crackers, and nothing for breakfast prior to that. I wouldn’t be having this meal of tacos and what looks like charro beans in a pot on the stove if it weren’t for Raul.