Tacker (Arizona Vengeance #5)(35)

“Oh my God,” I say, my hand coming near my neck to flutter there a moment. Donations are always welcome, but they are so few and far between. Every little bit helps. “Thank you, Tacker.”

“Not a big deal,” he says, his cheeks flushing. Because he’s embarrassed, I don’t make a big deal of it.

Except it is a big deal.

A mere three weeks ago, Tacker probably wouldn’t have gone out of his way to pee on someone who was on fire. And now he’s giving of himself selflessly. This is important because, as I told him before, generosity toward others is actually a healing act.

“I have something else for you,” he says, his tone slightly unsure and guarded.

I don’t know the source of his anxiety right now, but I give him a reassuring smile. “What is it?”

“Well,” he drawls as he steps around me to move to the passenger door of his truck. “I have no clue if this is any good or not. I made it myself, so most likely not. Actually, I had help making it. If it’s bad, I’ll blame it on Blue, but…”

I move in behind him, shamelessly standing on tiptoes to see what he has as he leans into his truck. He pulls out a plastic cake plate with a frosted domed hood, which makes it impossible to see what’s inside.

Tacker turns toward me, flips a latch on one side, and opens the top to reveal the contents.

When I see what’s there, my jaw drops open. “Shendetlie,” I whisper.

I hadn’t seen one in years and only had a handful in my youth, yet I’d never forget it.

Leaning forward, I inhale the smell of honey and walnuts. I remember watching Besjana make the simple flour cake that is filled with nuts and sweetened with honey. When it’s baked, it resembles a dry biscuit of sorts, but then it’s soaked in a simple syrup that gives it a cake-like texture.

Tacker clears his throat. “Like I said, no clue if it tastes good or not, but well…”

My gaze rises from the cake to him.

His face turns red and he glances over to the barn, perhaps seeking some type of assistance from Raul because he seems totally lost.

When his attention comes back to me, he says, “I don’t know if this is appropriate. I know it’s your birthday, and that this day represents the worst day of your life, too. I’m not a counselor, so I don’t know if this is helpful or harmful, but I just felt like you should have something meaningful today. If this is wrong, tell me now. I’ll go dump this in the trash.”

I immediately put my hand on Tacker’s arm, feeling my heart soften. Hopefully, my expression conveys just how perfect this is. There’s a hard lump in my throat, but I talk past it. “It’s the most wonderful thing ever. Truly.”

Tacker lets out a huge sigh of relief, then mutters, “Thank fuck. I doubted myself a million times before I came out here this morning. I think I stopped for the chicken feed because at least I’d have something I knew you’d love if I’d fucked up the cake thing.”

I tip my head back and laugh, loving the fact he can admit his doubts. While Tacker may be a man mired in anger, guilt, and grief, he’s always had a healthy ego. It’s nice to see that he keeps it in check with some admitted insecurities.

“Want to join me in a piece of cake?” I ask.

He flips the lid down, then latches it. “Sure.”

In my kitchen, I take the holder from Tacker. “Want some coffee?”

“Nah… I’m good.”

“Grab some bottles of water out of the fridge then,” I say as I pull two plates out of a cupboard.

Using the task of cutting the cake, I try to gather my thoughts. I’d spent so many years avoiding acknowledgment of my birthday that this cake seems like an enormously life-changing event.

Not a bad thing, but one I wasn’t prepared for today.

“Be honest,” Tacker says just as I pick up both plates to carry them over to the table. He meets me there, taking one out of my hand. “Was this okay? Making something from your past that might potentially bring up bad memories?”

I nod at the chair Tacker should sit in. To my surprised delight, he pulls mine out first. I sit and wait for him to do the same… the two pieces of cake momentarily forgotten.

“I never want to avoid memories, even if painful,” I say. “And there is absolutely nothing wrong with you doing something like this. I’d just gotten so used to ignoring my birthday and focusing on my adoption day with Helen instead. I’d honestly forgotten what it felt like to be joyful for my birth. So thank you.”

“No, thank you,” he replies solemnly. “I just wanted to do something to show you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”

I shake my head, pulling my cake plate toward me. “I haven’t done anything but my job.”

“Not true,” he replies as he picks up his fork. “You shared your history with me, and you didn’t have to do that. I know that’s not part of regular therapy, but I want you to know… had you not done that, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now having this discussion. It helped more than you could possibly realize.”

I smile, taking my fork in hand. “Then I’m very glad I did.”

“Does it get easier?” he asks. “Talking about it, I mean?”

“Yeah,” I say confidently. “It does get easier. I remember every time I told my story to someone—a counselor, a teacher, or a new friend—it came out a little smoother. Each time, I felt a bit more empowered that I could handle it.”