Tacker Page 2

  Which also means he’s probably more intuitive than I gave him credit for, which I’m thinking is definitely more creepy than not, but whatever.

  “I can’t continue to see the counselor you suggested,” I say succinctly. “Just got done with my first session, and it was a disaster.”

  “Why?” he asks, clearly not willing to just accept my word for it.

  Let’s see… how to put this into words without sounding like an unenlightened jackass. “He’s a douche. Wants me to hold hands with him and cry out my lament.”

  Dominik snorts, but he isn’t swayed. “I believe that’s generally how therapy works.”

  “Not for me, it doesn’t,” I mutter.

  “Well, choose someone else on the list. I believe you were given several names.”

  “No offense,” I tell him, rubbing at the nape of my neck. “But I’m going to assume whoever culled this list of names probably put a bunch of other dumbshits on the list as well.”

  “I can’t let you out of the requirement,” Dominik replies stiffly.

  “Not asking for that.” I sigh, scanning the parking lot. “I need someone who…” My words trail off. I don’t know what I need, but it’s not what I just walked out of.

  “I think I know exactly what you need,” Dominik says, and I jolt.

  How the fuck does he know when I don’t even know?

  “I’m going to text you the information,” he continues. “It’s called Shërim Ranch, and it’s just outside of Phoenix.”

  “A ranch?” I ask in confusion.

  He doesn’t clarify. “Ask for Nora Wayne. She’ll get you set up.”

  “What is this place?” I ask.

  “Good luck,” he says before disconnecting.

  A chime sounds from my phone. It’s the text Dominik said he’d send. It’s a link and when I tap on it to open Safari, a website comes up for Shërim Ranch. The header picture is of several horses galloping through the Arizona desert.

  I read the first line. At Shërim Ranch, we provide equine therapeutic services for people with physical, mental, and emotional needs.

  Equine therapeutic services? What the fuck is that?

  A sharp toot of a car horn catches my attention. My Uber driver sits there with an impatient expression on his face. I glare at him, but move to his car, opening the back door.

  After sliding in, I say, “I need to go somewhere different than what I put in.”

  “You’ll have to change it in the app,” he says, some young punk of a kid who doesn’t even glance back.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask.

  He shifts to see over his shoulder, eyes flaring wide when he takes a good look.

  Really sees who I am.

  “Holy shit… you’re Tacker Hall,” he gasps.

  “Can you take me to a new address without making me jump through hoops?” I ask.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Hall,” he replies, turning around to put the car in drive. “Where to?”

  “Some place called Shërim Ranch,” I mutter, pulling up the directions from a link on the website. “I’ll tell you where to go.”

  I settle in for the ride. It says the ranch is forty-two minutes away, and I’m going to spend the entire time wondering what in the hell Dominik Carlson has gotten me into.

  Okay… I’ll admit it… I’m intrigued. This definitely isn’t what I’d envisioned when I was ordered into counseling. Somehow, that’s comforting to me. The thought of laying on a couch and pouring my feelings out to a perfect stranger gives me the heebie-jeebies.

  I’d googled Shërim Ranch on the ride over. It’s owned and operated by Nora Wayne, the woman Dominik told me to ask for. She’s a licensed therapist, with undergraduate and master’s degrees from the University of Colorado. It appears she bought the ranch about three years ago, and it serves several purposes. In keeping with the history of the place, it still breeds and sells horses as well as offers general riding lessons.

  But the focus of the ranch is on “healing”—whatever that may mean to an individual. In fact, the website said Shërim meant “healing” or “recovery” in Albanian, and the small biography on Nora Wayne informed me she had been born there but moved to the United States when she was young.

  They offer camps for low-income kids so they can learn how to care for and ride horses. Nora Wayne also partners with the juvenile justice system, and she offers work on the ranch as a substitute for jail time in certain cases.

  And then there are the generalized counseling services she offers—both with and without equine assistance. Oh, and she does some other hippie shit like yoga and meditation services, which I am most definitely not interested in.

  My Uber driver takes me up the long dirt driveway to a ranch house. It looks to be about twenty-five-hundred square feet, all one level and done in stucco and red tile. Off to the left is a gray weathered barn and three different railed-off arenas. Beyond the house is a pasture, mostly brown patchy grass, but some green showing in the distance where a tree line starts. Three horses are there grazing.

  Curiously, there’s also a white metal-type building like those seen on a construction site. It’s set up on cinder blocks with a set of wooden steps that lead up to the door.

  A woman and teenage boy are in the paddock to the left of the barn. She’s holding on to the halter of a brown-and-white horse. The boy faces the horse with a dubious expression on his face. An older man watches from the exterior of the arena, his arms resting on top of the wooden fence.

  I hand the Uber driver a hundred-dollar bill before exiting the vehicle, giving a short wave as he effusively thanks me. Unsure of where to go, I head toward the only people I see.

  I have to assume that’s Nora Wayne in the paddock, but I could be entirely wrong. She’s tall and curvy, seemingly poured into the dusty, faded jeans she’s wearing with scuffed cowboy boots. It’s nice out with the temperature hitting the mid-seventies, which is normal for February in Arizona. She has a navy V-neck tee on with a plaid flannel wrapped around her waist. Her head is covered with a cream-colored cowboy hat that doesn’t let me see much of her face other than from the bottom of her nose down. A dark braid hangs down her back.

  The horse jerks slightly against the woman, taking half a step to the side. She brings him quickly under control, but the boy jumps backward, his eyes wide with fear.

  I lean up against the fence, directly on the opposite side from where the man watches, and I wait until they’re done with whatever it is they’re doing.

  CHAPTER 3

  Nora

  The horse shies left again, but I hold on to her halter. With a soft word, she settles.

  “He doesn’t like me,” Terrance grumbles, taking a step back.

  “She,” I correct.

  “She doesn’t like me,” the sixteen-year-old clarifies. He retreats more, his face a mask of dubiousness.

  “Well, we don’t know that’s true, do we?” I ask softly. “It’s not fair to judge what someone or something is thinking based on a tiny action. An expression. A sound.”

  Terrance stares. It’s his first session with me, and he has no more trust in me than he does Starlight, my beautiful, sweet-souled horse. I give her a tiny scratch under her chin with my free hand.

  “What if I told you that a horsefly just bit her on the ass?” I ask with an encouraging smile. “And that’s what made her move.”

  My gaze slides over to the rails of the small paddock we’re in. Raul has one leg propped up on the lower rail while he rests his forearm on the top one. His old straw cowboy hat shades his weathered and wizened face as he watches me work.

  “The truth is,” I continue, bringing my eyes to Terrance. I wait a moment until he gives me his attention. “Starlight doesn’t know you any better than you know her. But we need to correct that. So come a little closer.”

  Terrance is a city kid, raised poor and in an unstable home environment. He came in this morning, acting tough with a sullen attitude. He had been c
aught spray-painting graffiti on his high school gym—his second criminal offense—and rather than juvie, he got sent to me.

  Which is awesome.

  I prefer to take a crack at kids who might have potential, and Judge Beasely sends me the ones she thinks could benefit from my form of equine therapy rather than jail. Kids who go to juvenile detention end up getting lost in the system more often than not, and their rate of returning to crime is extremely high.

  “If you’re nervous,” I say gently, “she’ll sense it. She’ll be a bit nervous. So how about we show her some confidence? Lift your head up. Square your shoulders. Project outward that you’re her friend with a simple smile and you just want to get to know her a bit. She’ll sense it and react accordingly.”

  What Terrance doesn’t know is that’s a lot of horse shit—no pun intended. Starlight is a sweet, gentle horse that loves everyone. But I like to impart some life wisdom to Terrance when I can, and confidence is important.

  Smiling at people… just as important.

  Terrance does as I ask, moving toward us. He swallows hard, obviously intimidated by the size of the animal standing next to me. But he also has a healthy dose of sixteen-year-old boy ego in him, and he lifts his chin and presses his shoulders back.

  “You can stroke her right here… on her muzzle,” I say, demonstrating by doing so.

  The boy hesitates, his Adidas sneakers kicking up a bit of dust as he falters.

  “It’s okay,” I urge him. “I promise… she’ll be your friend.”

  Terrance looks at me with complete mistrust, and my heart hurts because of that. For whatever he’s gone through, it means he doesn’t know how to give the benefit of the doubt to someone.

  It means he doubts his own self-worth and I’m hoping by the time he’s done with this program, that will be a non-issue. It’s surprising what giving a kid a little confidence can do for them.

  How empowering it can be.

  How it can help them say no to trouble.

  “You have no reason to trust me, Terrance. I promise that you won’t get hurt here, but you don’t know me. I get why you can’t trust just yet. So the only way to accomplish this first task—to merely touch this animal—is for you to find something deep in yourself that will let you do it. I believe you have it in you.”

  He stares a moment, his expression conflicted. But again, it helps he has a bit of teen swagger within because he stretches his hand out ever so slowly to bridge the distance. While his feet don’t move any closer, he can still reach Starlight’s velvety muzzle and I can’t help but smile when his fingertips graze ever so softly down.

  Terrance actually sighs as if the softness of the horse is a pleasant surprise, and his lips curve upward.

  “Awesome,” I praise, and he jerks his hand back.

  That breaks my heart even more. He’s not used to hearing words of affirmation, so the wall goes back up around him.

  Glancing toward Raul, I give a slight jerk of my head, indicating I’m ready for him. He pushes off the rail, ambles over to the gate, and enters the paddock.

  “This is Raul,” I say as the old man approaches. “My ranch manager.”

  Raul Vargas is the most important person at the ranch. He just turned sixty-seven a few months ago, and his face looks it because of all his years in the sun. But Raul is fit as a fiddle, more spry than most people half his age, and he’s a horse whisperer of extraordinary talent. He’s also my closest friend in the world. A father figure, for sure, but I can talk to him about things I never would have dreamed of talking to my own father about before he’d died.

  “Raul’s going to show you how to groom Starlight,” I tell Terrance. “It will get you used to touching her and help her get used to your touch in return. It’s a relationship. Remember that.”

  I’m surprised when Terrance murmurs, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Not ma’am,” I say affectionately, squeezing his shoulder. “Just Nora.”

  “You got company,” Raul says, gesturing at something behind me.

  Turning, I have to put a hand up to shield my eyes from the sun that even the wide brim of my hat doesn’t protect me from. A tall man stands on the other side of the paddock. I can’t make out his features, but I know who he is.

  Tacker Hall.

  I’d been expecting him to show up at any time, which is why I’m turning Terrance over to Raul right now.

  Looking back over my shoulder, I smile at Terrance. “You did great. I’ll see you next week, okay?”

  “Okay, Nora,” he replies with a smile.

  I walk across the paddock toward my newest client. I’m incredibly busy, and I’m actually not taking on new clients. Had this man called, I would have passed him off to one of my other counselors.

  But he didn’t call.

  Dominik Carlson did.

  Now, an hour ago, I didn’t know who Dominik Carlson was. Admittedly, I live in my own little slice of the world, pretty oblivious to anything off this ranch. But in quick measure, he introduced himself as the owner of the Arizona Vengeance—which yes, I did know that was our professional hockey team because I do watch the news—and that he had a player who needed counseling.

  I was impressed he’d heard of me. He admitted he’d read an article in the newspaper a few months ago, and he thought maybe I could help his player, Tacker Hall.

  Regrettably, I had to decline because I didn’t have the time, but I quickly learned Dominik Carlson doesn’t really take no for an answer when he wants something.

  With no embarrassment at all, my schedule miraculously opened when he made an offer to donate fifty-thousand dollars to the ranch.

  That much money could not be ignored. While we make enough here to keep the horses well cared for and the mortgage paid each month, there’s not a lot left over afterward. I’d like to upgrade some of the buildings and paddocks, buy a tractor to mow the fields, and I’d like to give Raul a raise. He’s making the same amount of money he did when I brought him on three years ago, and he hasn’t complained once.

  So I told Mr. Carlson I’d be glad to help Mr. Hall, and he’s here now. I don’t know a damn thing about what his issues are, but we help all lost souls here. Drug addiction, depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, or just some kid trying to stay out of jail. I use the restorative powers of equine therapy and my own counseling education and experience to help reach people traditional counseling could not.

  As I draw closer to my new client, I try not to be caught off guard by how incredibly handsome he is. He has light brown hair, cut short, and hazel eyes. His face is classically handsome, all angles at the right proportions, and I have a feeling he could easily go from handsome to drop-dead gorgeous if he didn’t look so angry. His lips are pressed flat, and his eyes are cold.

  “Mr. Hall,” I say in greeting with a welcoming smile. When I hold my hand out across the top rail of the paddock, he takes it for a quick shake without any hesitation. “I’m Nora Wayne. Dominik Carlson said you’d be coming out today.”

  “I appreciate you seeing me,” he replies flatly, with no genuine appreciation at all. While Dominik didn’t tell me why Tacker was coming to see me, he did say it was not by choice. That it was mandated by the team, and he had to complete counseling at least twice a week to stay with the Vengeance.

  Ordinarily, I would have googled Tacker to get some background info, but I hadn’t had time because of my scheduled appointment with Terrance.

  “Let’s head into my office,” I say, sweeping my hand toward a small metal building about twenty yards away. “Can I call you Tacker?”

  “Call me whatever you like,” he mutters as he walks along the paddock fence with me.

  I make it through the gate, secure it closed, and lead him up a short set of steps into the office. It’s nothing more than a twelve-by-fourteen metal shack—but it was the best I could afford when I needed to put an actual office on the ranch to meet my clients on days we weren’t working with the horses.

 
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 Shërim 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.