Tacker (Arizona Vengeance #5)(8)

Her expression remains open and amiable. Her answer shocks me. “Money.”

“Money?”

“Frankly, my schedule was pretty full, and I wasn’t actively taking new clients. But Mr. Carlson said you were particularly important, and he made a charitable donation to the ranch. It was hard to say no after that.”

Well, I appreciate her honesty. It’s nice to know she can be bought, and I’ll tuck that knowledge away for potential future use.

“Why didn’t the last place work for you?” she asks.

My mind races, wanting to ask another question to forestall me needing to talk about something of substance. But I get lost in the expression on her face. Fierce and determined, I can see that while she’ll put up with some resistance from me, she’s going to be the type who will hammer me until she gets what she wants.

With a sigh, I roll over and just lay it out there. “Look… it’s not easy for me to talk about things. I’ve been bottled up for well over a year, and I’m not looking forward to confronting my feelings about my past.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I don’t like pain,” I mutter. “I mean… who does?

“You’ve moved from one therapist to another very quickly,” she points out, steeling her fingers in front of her face. “You do understand my way of doing things isn’t going to be any less painful, right?”

“What’s the deal with the horses?” I ask, not because I’m all that curious. But because she’s starting to talk about pain, which is a feeling, and while we haven’t even brought up MJ yet, I’m starting to feel anxious.

“They’re used in a lot of different ways. Distraction, building trust, showing kindness and love, and confidence boosting. It depends on what your needs are.”

My needs?

I need to stop dreaming about the crash.

I need to know MJ—wherever she is—doesn’t hate me for killing her.

I need to know if I’ll stop hating myself someday.

But I don’t know how to say any of that to this woman.

Nora looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to clue her in on why I’m here and what I need. My tongue feels glued to the roof of my mouth, though.

For the first time since we met, her smile slides a little. Her eyes harden minutely. “You do realize the purpose of counseling is to share, right? Confront. Purge. That requires talking and Dominik did tell me that it’s a requirement you make meaningful progress in order to stay on the team. I intend to report truthfully to him.”

I don’t need the reminder, nor her sanctimonious tone. “I’m fucking aware of that, lady.”

“Nora,” she replies. “My name is Nora.”

“I’m aware of that, too,” I mutter, rubbing my hand along my jaw. “Look… I’ll get there. Okay? I’m just not sure I’m ready to jump into the deep end right now.”

“Fair enough,” she says, that genial smile back as she stands from her desk. Grabbing her hat, she nods toward the door. “Come on.”

“Where?” I ask as she brushes past me to the door.

We step out into the afternoon Arizona sun. Nora puts her hat on her head, and I make a mental note to grab a ball cap to wear the next time I come out here.

I follow her past the paddock, then over to a weathered gray barn. We step inside, the shade making it incrementally cooler. There are four stalls on each side—all empty. The opposite side is open to the outside with another paddock beyond. Inside are three horses, a handful of adults, and several kids who appear to be preteens.

“What’s going on out there?” I ask.

“Just one of our basic classes on how to care for the horses,” she says. “In addition to counseling, we offer run-of-the-mill horsemanship training for low-income kids. Just to give them a different experience than what they are used to.”

“Are you the only counselor here?” I ask as she snags a wheelbarrow parked outside one of the stalls.

“The only full-time one,” she replies, grabbing a shovel as well. “I’ve got two part-time therapists who work here, but my other staff is mainly volunteer, except for Raul, my ranch manager.”

Nora hands the shovel to me, and I take it without thought. After she opens one of the stall doors, she points inside. “You can get started here.”

“Get started?” I ask.

“Shoveling shit,” she replies with a bright smile. “If you don’t want to talk, you can work so my time isn’t wasted.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I mutter.

“Really not,” she says calmly, then gestures at the floor. “Shovel up the manure into the wheelbarrow, then dump it in the pile behind the barn. After, throw down some fresh hay. It’s up above you in the loft.”

The urge to spill my guts about MJ hits me, because I’m pretty loathe to do what she just ordered me to. But I’m also not above getting dirty or putting in manual labor, especially to prove I’ll get to talking when I’m ready to. I just met the woman, for fuck’s sake.

Without a word, I move the wheelbarrow into the stall, then start the arduous and stinky task of cleaning it out. Luckily, there’s not a lot of shit in here, so it’s not going to take me long to complete the task, especially if the other stalls are similar to this.