Where We Are

by Annie McDonald

  “Wow, homemade tortillas? Corn?” Mia accepted the basket and pulled back the linen cloth, breathing in the delicious, earthy aroma.

  Isabel looked at her as if she’d asked if there really was a man in the moon. “Of course. Where I’m from, there’s no other kind. Only two ingredients needed, masa harina and water.”

  “Where are you from?” A pause, then Mia continued, “Originally?”

  “Asunción Ocotlán. It’s a very small place in the south of Mexico. I’ve been here with the Harrises a long time now.”

  Mia stiffened at the mention of the Harrises and noted a glance between Isabel and Beth that suggested there was more to the story. Before she could inquire, Isabel looked her in the eyes.

  “Please accept my apologies for Sid’s behavior. I heard that she behaved badly. She’s as headstrong as her father at times, but like him, she has a good heart.” Isabel looked again at Beth, who smiled slyly, then back at Mia.

  Somebody has a secret. Wait a second…how do they know?

  As if reading Mia’s mind, Beth stepped forward to explain that Leah had called from her cell on her way to the airport and told her about Sid’s confrontation with Mia the day before last.

  “Don’t worry. When it comes to secrets, Isabel is a vault.” Beth winked at Isabel, confirming what Mia suspected. There was clearly something going on that they weren’t about to share.

  “Next trip, I get time with her first,” Beth continued. “You and your damn tequila have a way of monopolizing Leah’s home time.”

  “Deal. I don’t like her much anyways,” Mia lied, and Beth and Isabel both laughed.

  Once they gathered around the kitchen table, iced teas in hand, Mia set some shredded chicken, salsa, and guacamole on the table. She hoped Isabel wouldn’t be offended that the latter two were store-bought. Unable to politely wait and still starving from the morning’s activities, Mia peeled one of Isabel’s tortillas off the top of the stack, noting that it was soft as a pillow; the almost nutty fragrance reminded her of mushrooms. The thin pancake melted on her tongue, and she was astonished that something so simple could taste so amazing. They ate, but it wasn’t long before the conversation turned back to Sid Harris.

  “She wasn’t always like that, our Sid. When her mama died, she was devastated. Teenagers already have such a tough time. I’m sure you know.” Isabel rested her hand on Mia’s. “She pulled away from her friends and especially from her papa. Duncan. Years later, she went away to university and didn’t come back other than Christmas except to help in the spring with plowing and planting. I think it was hard for her to be here when her mother wasn’t.”

  “What a terrible coincidence,” Beth said. “Sid lost her mom around the same age you lost yours and Leah lost her dad, my Bruce.”

  Mia wasn’t sure how to respond. She wanted to stand her ground, rationalizing that grief or sadness or whatever Sid might be feeling didn’t excuse rudeness years later. But she also felt a twinge of empathy and compassion for another girl who lost her mom too soon.

  “You haven’t met the real Sid, the one on the inside,” Isabel continued as Mia dug into another tortilla. “Just now, so much stress. The stolen cattle. A new bull. Many fences that need fixing. And she has a big job in the city that she’s still trying to manage from here.” Isabel shook her head. “I’m not sure how she does it all. Well, I guess I do. Not very nicely right now.”

  Big job was a bit of an understatement. The Northern Lights Gallery was top-shelf, their exhibits unparalleled in terms of heritage and contemporary Canadian art. Leah and Mia would always include an afternoon in their itineraries whenever Leah came to visit her—and then her and Riley—in Toronto. A curator would have responsibilities beyond what Mia could have imagined Cassidy Harris capable of, given her encounters with the woman thus far. Tact, for one example. Diplomacy another.

  “That’s okay, Isabel.” Mia could tell she felt genuinely bad, and that was not hers to bear. “We all have bad days. I’m sure that if she was influenced at all by having you in her life after her mom passed, she has a more endearing side. We all do.”

  Isabel smiled, relieved, it seemed, to have made some sort of amends.

  They continued to share stories over lunch. Beth asked about Mia’s dad. They’d maintained their friendship after he’d moved to Calgary to support Mia through university, but she caught her up on his most recent travels and promised she’d pass along her best when they spoke next.

  A deep grumble of thunder rolled outside. Flynn, never a fan of storms, whimpered and put his paw over his eyes. Milo took it as an invitation to annoy his buddy and licked Flynn’s face. Mia could easily imagine what Flynn was thinking.

  “Isabel, we should think about going soon. Mia, please tell me how you’re really doing.” When Beth used her name with that tone and an emphasis on the really, Mia knew what she was asking.

  “I’m okay. Really, Beth.” Mia smiled at her imitation. “Of course, I’ll always miss Riley, but I don’t want to miss out on life; she’d kick my ass if I chose that path. You know she would.”

  Beth smiled and hugged her. Isabel smiled empathetically, so Mia gathered she had been made aware of who Riley was.

  As Isabel collected the empty tortilla basket, she continued—unnecessarily but kindly—to make amends. “Duncan and I would like you to feel free to use the show arena whenever you like. It’s covered and will come in handy for you and the dogs if the rain lasts. Aaron and Sid just moved the new bull into the far pen, but there’s plenty of room for your training. We have no events requiring it for the next few weeks. Oh, and mark your calendar for two weeks from now. I’m throwing a big fiesta for Duncan’s seventieth birthday. You must come!”

  “If I’m here, I may just do that. Milo is a quick learner, so I may have moved on by then, though I’m not sure where to next.”

  “Please promise me. I’m making tortillas. So much food. And I will put Sid on notice that she must treat all the guests like royalty.”

  Mia smiled, but on the inside, doubts stirred that Sid would take kindly to seeing her. Maybe that was as good a reason as any to go.

  Chapter Eight

  Mia chose, wisely she thought, to take a short nap after lunch. She had not been a napper in her younger years, but now that she stood close to the fifty-year threshold, with the rain pounding on the trailer and the thunder rolling across the fields, it would be easy and wise to reenergize before taking the extra hour with Milo. Both dogs usually curled at the foot of the bed, but today it was just her and Milo, Flynn preferring the added protection of the kitchen table above his head.

  Awake by midafternoon, she had successfully put the post-tequila jitters and thirst behind her, and the rain let up enough to get from trailer to truck without rain gear. She set out with Milo to take Isabel and Duncan up on their offer of the arena.

  She passed the first driveway into the compound, noticing that the second entry ran up directly beside the arena. The ruts were deep, and because they were made by a truck with a double-wide wheel base, her pickup slid in the mud from one trough to the other, jostling her and Milo in spite of her seat belt and his harness vest, and eventually coming to a slick stop beside the main south opening under the building’s overhang. As it did, she recognized Aaron as he stepped up to the passenger window and knocked. She pushed the button on her armrest, holding Milo’s harness in case he felt the need to lunge, bark, or lick the handsome, friendly face.

  “Hey, there! Isabel told me you might be coming. I’m Aaron, and as I understand it, you’re Mia.” He pushed his tanned, muscled arm into the cab, letting Milo give him a thorough sniff, thus gaining permission to shake Mia’s hand.

  “We did meet a few days ago.” Mia was unsure of whether the two cousins were of a feather, so kept her tone formal. “But I’m certain you had no idea then that I was a guest of the Millers.”

  “No, ma’am, I certainly did not. And I do apologize for the behavior of myself and, of course, my cousin. Sid
had a very, very bad morning that day. Not to excuse her, but well, we’ve been having a few challenges lately.”

  “Cattle disappearing in the night? Yes, I heard. That’s terrible. Any idea who?”

  “No, ma’am.” He walked around the front of the truck and opened Mia’s door, offering a hand which she ignored, but as her foot sank inches into the mud, she accepted with thanks.

  “Mia, please, Aaron. I’m nobody’s ma’am.”

  The two walked around the pickup and into the mostly open-air arena. Mia brushed off jacket sleeves that had become speckled with rain before giving up and setting it down on a bale near the door. The building was beautifully equipped for work and show: eighty yards or so long and at least forty wide. Whitewashed walls ran along three sides of the building, not quite halfway up the height of the beautifully hand hewn, two-foot by two-foot fir posts that supported the main beams and roof. Above these half walls were vertical metal rails that effectively deterred an animal that might have notions of escape.

  The show building had two large entryways on each of the sides, their locations mirrored to facilitate off-loading, enabling a vehicle to go in one side and straight out the other. These each had a standard cattle swing gate, and also electric pull-down iron fences that would contain animals, but most importantly—especially in August heat—would facilitate air flow throughout the stadium.

  Around the inside perimeter, along the half walls of the two long sides and one short side, were three-level stadium benches. All along the remaining short side—the only full exterior wall—was a heavy gauge pen roughly ten yards deep with gates on the three open sides. Stacks of hay bales walled off almost the entire left half, and Mia assumed the enclosure, like others she had seen in arena barns when the facility wasn’t in use, was to segregate sick or injured cattle.

  “My gosh, it’s so still. That rain has done nothing to drop the temperatures or the humidity.” Mia was pleased that she’d decided on a sleeveless, collarless cotton shirt.

  “It’s always that way here. When the rains come, it’s as if the winds forget to. Except during Chinooks!” Aaron possessed that good ol’ boy charm, and as much as she’d tried to dislike him—unfairly—by association with Sid, she found herself enjoying his company. “If you’re looking to cool off, there’s a small lake up on the step just south of where you’re camped. Maybe you saw it on your walk the other day?”

  Mia shook her head, wishing she had. It would be a lovely respite during days like these, and the dogs would enjoy a plunge more than a walk in the creek to cool off.

  “You can cut through woods beyond where we met you and stay on the game trail. There’s a gate Duncan built so that the neighbors could access it…I think he’s too afraid to tell Sid about it.”

  “Don’t they get along?” Mia was undoing Milo’s harness, setting him down on the arena side of the mud that surrounded her truck.

  “Oh heck, they get along. But Sid reacts like a mama bear when folks take advantage, and she’s trying her best right now to hold down the fort, so to speak. Uncle Dunc is just so friendly, and I think she’s caught up in trying to protect him from his own kindness.”

  That’s understandable. Mama bear indeed.

  “Between you and me,” he added, “Sid loves this place more than she probably knows. And she’s worried that if things keep up the way they’re going, well—”

  “Cuz! Let’s go. That grain isn’t going to pour itself.” Sid stood in the doorway on the far side of the barn, one hand on her hip and the other holding a pair of leather gloves, which she was slapping on her thigh. At the sound of her voice, Milo stopped sniffing the ground and beelined toward her.

  “Milo, stand,” Mia called.

  Milo stopped, his sights still on Sid, but his desire thwarted by training that had started to seep into his young brain.

  “Howdy, neighbor.” She tipped her head, and Mia caught a slight smirk beneath her hat brim. “Impressive. Good dog.”

  Aaron passed Milo, who held his spot, and joined his cousin. “See you later, Mia. You too, Milo.”

  “Bye, Aaron. Nice meeting you…this time!” Mia turned, refusing to acknowledge Sid by pretending she had something urgent to get out of the truck. She felt the glare against her back.

  Get a good look. That’s all you’ll get.

  By the time she turned back, Sid and Aaron were headed toward the barn on the other side of the courtyard, seemingly oblivious to the light rain that still fell and the mud puddles they sloshed through.

  * * *

  Mia and Milo worked together at the open end of the stadium near the gates, happy for a late afternoon breeze that at long, hot last had started to work its way down the cooler mountains. Milo had done well, and Mia’s jeans pocket was empty of treats in spite of the fact that she used them sparingly. She kept a small reserve in her glove compartment and was walking to the truck to fetch them when a sharp staccato of barks caused her to spin back into the arena. Milo was at a full run to the pen at the far end of the building. He covered the last bit of distance with a dive, flattening to squish himself between the muddy floor and the lowest metal bar. He darted back and forth in the pen, barking at whatever stood behind the hay bales; her heart lurched as she ran toward the enclosure.

  Surely there’s nothing in there. We would’ve seen it by now.

  A loud prolonged snort emanated from behind the stack of hay bales.

  Oh God. The dread built as she remembered something Isabel had said at lunch.

  “…new bull…far pen…”

  “Milo, come.” She fought her own panic, needing to keep her voice steady and commanding. The barking continued. By the time she reached the pen, the bull had shown himself. His massive dark body was hunched like a grizzly bear, his head bobbing and black eyes glistening as they followed Milo’s ill-advised leaps with sickening intent. Mia had no time to think; she climbed over the bars, vaulting into the bull’s domain. Milo continued to bark and dance, but the bull turned its attention to Mia.

  She grabbed Milo by the scruff and tossed him behind her. If she had a plan, it wasn’t a good one. She was in a very bad spot, the bull cutting off her escape, no doubt to crush her against the wall. Keep away from his feet. Don’t get trampled or kicked. As her panic rose, he advanced like a tank.

  Desperately, Mia leapt on the lowest rail of the gate, lunged, and grabbed his nose ring before he could pull away. She held tight to the snot-covered metal as the bull’s head twisted grotesquely, and his body pressed her into the iron bars.

  Don’t let go. Mia, don’t let go.

  She wasn’t sure it was her own voice, but it was followed by a sickening crunch as the bull pushed slowly into her. Mia felt as though a red-hot bowsaw pushed and pulled savagely through her torso. Her feet lifted off the rail, and she dangled like a broken rag doll. She was desperate to keep hold of the cold, wet brass, the spew of the bull soaking her hand and arm; she twisted the ring with all of her strength, and the bull jerked away. Her feet planted again, one on the rail, the other in the mud. Milo barked frantically, adding to the snorting, spewing, and grunting in the pen. With her arm extended to keep hold of the nose ring, each breath brought with it the searing cut of the saw.

  The bull retrenched and pressed against her again. Her body lifted, and she lost her footing, putting her whole weight on his ring. Her arm twisted with his head as he shrieked with pain. A shower of warm mucus flew through the air. It twirled and twizzled and flipped above her like a slow-motion scene in a Tarantino film.

  Don’t let go. Don’t let go.

  She fell so he was unable to rack her again, bringing relief and dread; his hooves would kill just as easily. Her fingers slipped from the ring, and her head fell back, striking the lower bar with a strange clang that echoed like a bouncing ball through her head. Each echo brought with it a dizzying, nauseating thud that turned Mia’s stomach. The darkness sweeping across her vision seemed to have also turned down the volume. Now everything slowed.


  Bits and pieces.

  Intermittent flashes. Slides in a carousel.

  Barking. Voices.

  “Hold on, Mia!”

  More slides. Two hands wrapped under her arms, tugging, the bar now over her head, the mud cold and wet under her body but yielding like snow on a toboggan run. Jagged spears replaced the red-hot saw. Spears tortured her with each movement and each breath. A scream she thought sounded like her own. Then more spears.

  Now warmth. Strong soft arms around her, down in the mud, cradling her. Milo licking the bull’s spit off her hand.

  Tumbleweeds. Whispers now.

  “Hold on. I gotcha.”

  Copper-brown hair, like a worn penny. The smell of hay. Flannel.

  “Dammit, Mia.”

  * * *

  “How goddam stupid, Aaron!” She was pacing frantically.

  “Sid, calm down.”

  “I won’t calm down. She could’ve been killed. She should’ve known better. At least she had the sense to hang on to that ring.”

  He nodded. “She’ll be fine, cuz.”

  “She’d better be. I mean, what was she thinking? And what about Bullwinkle? How much longer until he’ll settle now?”

  Aaron didn’t reply. He knew she wasn’t at all concerned about the bull. Her focus was on nothing or no one but Mia. Sid had moved so quickly when Milo sounded the alarm that she was across the yard before he was even out of the barn. As he entered the stadium, he heard Mia’s desperate cry and saw Sid scramble under the fence and single-handedly wedge and slide her under the rail and out from beneath the thrashing bull. He saw her face as she fell backward onto the sloppy, straw-strewn floor of the arena, holding the whimpering, mud-covered Mia in her arms. Aaron had seen more than fear in Sid’s eyes. He saw a steadfastness he knew Sid possessed but hadn’t seen since he was a young boy in the days at his sick aunt’s bedside. The Sid of then had parked her emotions elsewhere when cancer visited the Harris house. She was always there, tending to her mom’s every need, but she was absent, too. When Beverly Harris succumbed, maybe a bit of Sid went with her. Now, seeing such deep, undisguised tenderness in her tear-streaked eyes, he was reminded of Sid before those dark days.