Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“I have an idea,” Nora suggests. I blink, focusing with a tiny measure of trepidation. Her having an idea sounds very much like she wants me to do something outside my comfort zone. “Let’s talk about something this week that you’ve been grateful for. You may not have even realized it happened.”
When I walk out of Nora’s house at the end of the session, I have to admit to feeling an incredibly unique sensation. I feel a tiny bit free, as if there’s not a weight pushing me down. Nora might even translate that into hope, but I don’t want to go that far.
Raul pulls up on a Gator as I’m walking down the porch steps. The back is loaded with two chainsaws. He nods in acknowledgment, and I return the gesture.
The front door to the main house opens and Nora comes trotting down the porch steps, putting on a pair of heavy work gloves.
I nod at the chainsaws. “Going to cut some stuff up?”
“Oh yeah,” she replies with a laugh, rounding the front of the Gator. “Too much work and not enough time on this ranch.”
“I’m going to the game tonight, so I need to head back to Phoenix,” I say, wondering what the fuck I’m doing. “But I could come back tomorrow and help.”
Nora’s eyes briefly widen before she grins. “Okay. I’m not going to turn down free help. Just come on out when you can.”
“Okay,” I reply.
Nora waves and hops in the Gator beside Raul. I watch as they roar away.
CHAPTER 10
Nora
“I’ve got that one,” Tacker says as he nudges me aside to grab a fairly large section of an old mesquite Raul and I had cut down yesterday to make way for a new pasture. He places it carefully on the trailer, which we’d attached to the Gator, and makes quick work of securing the pile down with bungee cords.
It’s our third load of the morning. We’ve been hauling them to the far end of the ranch. One day, I’ll hopefully have the ability to haul it away from the ranch. For right now, though, this will have to do. Burning it all isn’t an option—prohibited actually.
Although Tacker hadn’t asked, he’d taken the driver seat in the Gator from the first load we moved. Must be a man thing, I’m thinking, but when he does it again, I take the passenger seat.
At the pile of debris we’d cut, he also kept nudging me out of the way every time I’d try to pick up something heavy until I finally had to tell him to back off. That I was more than capable of the work. I’d also pointed out he was the one lifting stuff with a wrist in a cast. Granted, he was able to easily grab the cut pieces with his good arm, but still… it was insulting in a way.
For the most part, we’ve worked in silence today, which is fine. It’s not a formal counseling session, but I’m always at the ready to talk if he wants. I’m not the type who can click my clients on and off outside formal office hours.
But the short drive on the Gator is an opportunity to engage in conversation, and I’ve gotten a good sense Tacker might need practice on how to re-engage with people since he’s been so cut off from others for the past year.
“How was the game last night?” I ask. “I saw that the Vengeance won on the morning news.”
Tacker nods as we bump along the rough terrain, no road having been forged to where we’re going. “It was a close game, but they pulled it out.”
“They?” I ask curiously. “It’s your team, too.”
He shoots me a sharp look before it turns sheepish. “You’re right. I should be using the term ‘we’.”
“It’s easy to get disconnected when you’re away from the action,” I say. “Once you’re back on the ice with them again, it will seem like an old, comfy hat.”
“It did feel good to be back in the arena again,” he admits almost grudgingly.
Laughing, I give him a small pop on his bicep with my fist. “You’re allowed to have happiness, Tacker. Remember… give yourself permission to feel grateful for things.”
“Yes, Doc,” he mutters, but I take heart in the way the corners of his lips curve upward.
We reach our destination, unload the haul in a disproportionate effort as Tacker out-lifts and out-moves me, and then head back in the Gator with the now-empty trailer.
“Head up to the main house,” I say. “It’s almost lunchtime. I’ll make us something to eat.”
“You don’t have to,” he’s quick to reply.
I give him a slow smirk. “Trust me… I have to. I feel guilty with how hard you’ve been working.”
“It’s nothing,” he mutters.
“It’s very much appreciated,” I chide, not wanting him to dismiss his generosity at offering his time. “Without volunteer help, not sure this place would survive.”