Tacker (Arizona Vengeance #5)(7)

Inside, I have an old wooden desk with a mesh rolling chair on my side and a comfortable guest chair I took straight from my living room on the other. No couch for me. I’ve always thought it was cliché for a therapist.

My degrees are framed but not hanging on my wall. In the three years since I’ve opened Sh?rim Ranch, I haven’t had the time to bother. If someone wants to know, I’ll tell them I got both my undergrad and master’s in professional counseling from the University of Colorado, but they can look it up on the website.

The only other measure of comfort is the air conditioner in the window, a necessity when the desert sun turns this metal shack into an oven come April, just a few short months away. As it is, the temps are in the low seventies today, so I’ve got the other windows open to let in the fresh air.

Pointing to the chair, I say, “Have a seat, Tacker.”

He does so, glancing around my barren office, his expression unreadable.

“Not your typical therapist office, I know,” I say with a smile as I sit in my rolling chair.

Tacker shakes his head as he lowers himself into the guest chair. “A lot different than the office I just left.”





CHAPTER 4




Tacker


Not going to lie… The woman who just a few moments ago walked across that paddock toward me certainly looks better than Gordon Dumfries.

Way fucking better.

Like major-distraction type better.

This is made more apparent when she takes her hat off after we enter her office, tossing it on her desktop crowded with folders, papers, and about five coffee cups.

When we were outside, the cowboy hat perched on her head shadowed the top half of her face, but I could see generous lips, a delicate jawline, and a dark braided ponytail swinging behind her.

I’m stunned as I take in her whole face. She’s beyond gorgeous. Olive-toned skin, high cheekbones, and delicately arched eyebrows over cinnamon-colored eyes that are exotically tilted upward. She’s exquisite, definitely not what I’d expect on a horse ranch, but rather modeling high-end fashion in Milan.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asks, and it takes me a moment to focus in on her question because I’d been so dumbstruck by her beauty.

It’s not that I haven’t noticed females in the last fifteen months since MJ died.

I have. It’s not been lost on me that Bishop, Erik, Legend, and Dax have all fallen one by one to beautiful creatures who captured their hearts. I can appreciate a woman’s form and face just as much as the next man, but that’s where my interest ends.

It’s still MJ I think of at night before I close my eyes.

“You still have an accent,” I remark off-handedly, remembering the tidbit on the website that said she had been born in Albania. “But it’s very faint.”

In the few words I’ve heard her speak, it’s obvious she has a slightly different intonation and she rolls her R’s just a little. It’s hardly noticeable and yet, I feel like this woman is clearer to me than anyone I’ve met in recent history.

Weird.

She smiles. “I was born in Albania, but I’ve been in the U.S. since I was eleven. My accent sometimes comes out when I’m nervous.”

“Nervous?” I blink in surprise. “What could you have to be nervous about?”

Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Taking on a new client is a great responsibility. I was born to help people heal, so I take it very seriously. But it still makes me a bit nervous when I first meet my new charge.”

I can’t figure out if she’s bullshitting me. She sounds genuine, but that also seems a little corny and smells a bit like the horseshit aroma from the paddock.

“I can see that puts you off,” she remarks, staring me dead in the eye. She doesn’t appear offended, though. “But hopefully, you’ll come to realize I mean what I say.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. Trust doesn’t come easily. I’m a closed-off person. And even though I’m here and willing to do what’s being demanded of me, I don’t want to be here. I don’t look forward to any of this, and I’m not about to be charmed by some hippie horsewoman who thinks she can smile her way into my good graces.

So I don’t say anything.

She raises an eyebrow, giving me a chance to reconsider if I’d like to engage further about that little tidbit she’d offered where she attempted to humanize herself so I’d feel comfortable with her.

When I don’t respond, she sighs and folds her hands on her desk. “I’m not sure why Mr. Carlson referred you to me.”

“I have to complete counseling in order to stay on the team,” I tell her, realizing how vague that sounds.

“Because?” she prompts.

“I got drunk and ran my truck into a concrete barrier.”

She seems taken aback. “Intentionally?”

“Yes.”

“And why did you do that?” she inquires, now in full-on counselor mode.

I’m not ready to go there, so I ask instead, “How do you know Dominik?”

“I don’t.” That catches me by surprise, and I jerk my chin inward. “He apparently read about my program, and he thought it would be a good fit for you.”

“But you don’t know if I am a good fit,” I surmise. Because while this ranch and metal shack are quite different than the therapist I saw earlier, it doesn’t mean she’s different. “Why did you take my case?”