Tacker (Arizona Vengeance #5)(16)

“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 8




Tacker


The 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.

Yeah… it was a stupid idea, but I wasn’t about to say “no” to her. We were spending a romantic week at a resort in St. Croix, and MJ had it in her mind she wanted to ride horses on the beach at sunset.

Sure, the sunset and beach part would be romantic, but the horses… not so much. Being from Texas, MJ wasn’t a stranger to horses, but I was from the concrete streets of Richmond, Virginia and had never so much as touched a horse before.

Not only was I out of my comfort zone riding the huge beast I was afraid would embarrassingly dump me on my ass into the wet sand at some point, but the winds were also so fierce coming off the water that my eyes were watering.

Still… I know I’m dreaming, but I hold onto it. It’s one of the rare dreams of MJ that I get that I actually treasure. A happy time where we were laughing and in love.

“Who’s that?” she asks, raising a finger to point down the beach.

Turning my head, I squint my eyes against the wind to see a figure in the distance. I can’t make out who it is, but it appears to be a woman.

Weirdly, the wind doesn’t seem to be touching her. Her dark brown hair lays calm along her shoulders. As our horses move closer to the woman, I can see she’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, which is definitely not how one dresses on a Caribbean beach.

And then I recognize her.

Nora.

I take in the odd way she’s dressed, yet still appreciating how her curves fill out her western wear in all the right places. The exquisitely refined facial features and cat eyes that stare knowingly at me.

It makes me hot under the collar and I slowly shift toward MJ, ready to explain how I know this woman and how there is no need for her to be jealous. MJ doesn’t give me her attention, though. She just stares at Nora, head tilted slightly in curiosity with a pleasant smile as she uses her hand to battle the froth of hair blowing around her face.