Tacker (Arizona Vengeance #5)(11)

I’m terrible at cooking, and I’m a sucker for anything that comes in a convenient package. In addition to managing the ranch, Raul has taken it upon himself to get at least one home-cooked meal in me per day if he can manage it.

At first, I’d thought to complain about it because he does so much for so little anyway, but then I realized… Raul has an empty home. His wife died years ago, and all his kids have moved away. If he doesn’t eat with me, he would be alone in one of the small staff cabins on the land. That’s a sadness I don’t want to bear.

“Grab us a few beers,” he says as he turns the stove off and grabs a pot holder.

I do as he asks because an ice-cold beer after a long day of work is always the best-tasting kind. Raul pulls the hot corn shells out of the oven, placing them on the Formica counter. After I open the beers and put them on the tiny kitchen table, I move to accept a plate from Raul that he’d pulled out of the cupboard.

I load up three tacos with the meat, beans, and freshly grated cheddar Raul has in a bowl. He never bothers with lettuce and tomato, but I spoon on some green tomatillo sauce he made. My mouth waters slightly in anticipation.

Raul had worked this ranch long before I bought it at auction with the help of my mother. It was here that I had my very first riding lessons from none other than Raul himself when I was twelve. He was a gentle and patient teacher, and he curated a love for horses within me. It was a special outlet for me, where I could be free from my horrible memories of the time before Helen rescued me.

When I bought the ranch, it was only done with the promise by Raul that he would stay on and help me with my vision to use horses as a means of healing. Not like he had anywhere to go. He’s sixty-seven and most employers think that’s too old, but frankly… I couldn’t do any of this without him.

At the table, the only sound is the crunch of tacos and the occasional slurp of beer. Eventually, Raul asks, “What’s the deal with the new client?”

He knows I can’t tell him any details about my counseling with Tacker, but that hasn’t even begun yet. I shrug. “He’s not talking yet, so I put him to work in the stalls.”

Raul chuckles. “That usually gets their gums flapping.”

“He noticed my accent,” I say as I pick up my beer bottle.

“You must have been nervous,” he says with a sage nod. He knows me that well.

“Well, his counseling is mandatory, and I have to report back to his employer. I expect our next meeting will be more productive.”

“He’s going to be difficult for you,” Raul murmurs, and I can hear the worry in his voice. He always worries for me. Has since the day I met him almost twenty years ago when I took my first riding lesson from him. “You might need to share a bit of yourself with him to get him to open up.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to do that,” I reply as I pick up my beer. I hold it up for a moment, pondering. “I wonder what the best approach to take with him is. You were in the barn… you heard how averse he is to anything that promises him even a sliver of hope.”

“Just hit him with your rays of sunshine, Nora. You have a special talent in making people believe in the best.”

I snort, because he’s very much exaggerating. I don’t have special powers or talent. I’m a good listener, though. And, through my education and training, I know how to give the proper kind of guidance.

I’ll google him tonight to get the basic background on him. Maybe that will give me some ideas on how to handle our next session on Friday.

But, for now, there are more important things to discuss at dinner. I take a sip of my beer, put the bottle back down, and then lean forward. “So… tonight’s bingo at the community center. I heard Tillie’s grandson say she was going,” I tease.

“So,” Raul replies gruffly, his focus on his tacos suddenly super intense.

“So, you should go sit with her. She’s totally sweet on you.”

“Cierra esa boca,” he grumbles—a gentle rebuke for my ribbing—but his cheeks are turning slightly red under the dark tan he has. “I’m too old to be worrying about who’s sweet on me and who’s not.”

“MaryBeth Henson is most definitely not sweet on you,” I say with a snort.

“Good,” he replies with a smirk. “She’s a harridan.”

MaryBeth helps me with the ranch house, cleaning it for me every few weeks. I’m so busy that mopping floors and dusting furniture are the lowest activities on my priority list. So I broke down and hired her to help out.

While Raul lives in guest quarters on the ranch, he freely moves in and out of the main house, often taking most meals with me. For some reason, he and MaryBeth don’t get along.

“It’s just,” I hedge a little, not willing to give up on Tillie. “I don’t want you to be lonely. You pour your heart and soul into this ranch and into me—”

“Exactly,” he says, cutting me off. “I have you.”

Raul’s wife died nine years ago. She was a sweet woman who doted on him. They have two children and five grandchildren, but they all migrated and moved east so he doesn’t see them a lot. While I love him like a father and a best friend, I know my offerings to him have their own shortcomings. I want him to have someone in his life who will focus on him one hundred percent. Tillie would do that if he’d let her.