Where We Are

by Annie McDonald

  Though it seemed like hours, it was only several minutes later when Mia was able to get to her feet, albeit unsteadily. He noted the smile Sid tried to disguise as Mia insisted she was fine, and that yes, she would go to the hospital provided Isabel drove her, and no ambulance was required.

  Girls, he thought, then shook his head. Check that. Women.

  Chapter Nine

  A cloud of red Alberta dust chased the pickup truck along the foothill. It grew bigger as the truck slowed near the Harris ranch turnoff. Mia had felt every stone beneath the tires and every hollow in the road from the moment she and Isabel left the hospital. She bit hard on her tongue, refusing to alarm her anxious driver, but as Isabel turned slowly into the Harris driveway, the front wheel of the truck dipped sharply into a mud rut, and Mia let out a yelp.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m going as slowly as I can without risking getting stuck.”

  Mia could feel Isabel’s eyes on her. When she caught a narrowed glimpse of her own face in the sideview mirror, she understood Isabel’s concern: her eyes were creased in pain, and her eerily ashen face was scrunched up as she tried to thwart the feeling. Her breath came short through her nose at first, then as the pain subsided to what was just short of terrible, she was able to relax and take a few shallow breaths through her mouth.

  “Please don’t apologize; you’re doing great.” It was a miracle Mia could manage words. Her right arm was tucked in close against her side and abdomen, creating a natural splint that barely relieved her discomfort. Her right hand was bandaged, her fingertips sticking out of the end of the gauze so she was forced to use her left hand to grip the seat belt, doing her best to take a bit more of the pressure off her right ribs. Though corseted tightly, every movement of her torso sent shards of pain to her throbbing head. Nausea rose in her gut constantly, but the prospect of retching with her ribs so compromised was enough to arrest the notion.

  “Are you sure that Milo is okay?” she asked, hoping the change of topic would make the next few hundred yards to the house bearable.

  “Yes, please don’t worry. Aaron texted while you were with the doctor; it took a bit to get him to calm down, but he seemed better once Flynn was brought down to the house.”

  “Flynn hasn’t been around many men. I’m surprised he agreed. You know, I appreciate your offer to stay, but I’m pretty sure I can manage at the trailer.”

  “And I’m pretty sure you cannot.” Isabel took her right hand off the wheel and put it gently on Mia’s lap. “At least, not for a day or two. You’re going to be even stiffer tomorrow, and we’re happy to have you and the dogs. We have plenty of room.”

  Mia moaned as the car completed its stop in front of the main house.

  “Are the drugs wearing off? I picked up the prescription at the hospital pharmacy while they were monitoring you. As soon as we get in the house, we’ll top you off with a couple of Percocet; that should help you sleep.”

  “Thank you. Sorry to be a bother.” Mia doubted there were enough drugs on the planet to keep the spears at bay. She felt helpless, and tears began to fall down her cheeks. She didn’t have the energy to wipe them away.

  “No bother at all. Just be aware that I will be poking my head into your room throughout the night as instructed by the doctor to make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

  “I didn’t lose consciousness. I just got a bit…blurry.”

  Blurry? Or was I hallucinating?

  Images again flashed through her mind as if on an old-school carousel projector. The slick black hooves raised above her. Milo. Sid’s hair. Green eyes, panicked. Tears. Shouts.

  “Well, nonetheless, little girl, you’ll be under observation.” Isabel had adopted Beth’s term of endearment, and for that brief moment—until the truck came to a stop in front of the house—Mia forgot how much she hurt.

  Could have been worse.

  The doctor told her how lucky she had been, and Mia couldn’t disagree. She wasn’t sure if her nausea was a response to the goose egg on the back of her head or the intrusive memory of fear as she struggled to protect Milo and escape. Either way, she thought with dread, it could have ended much differently.

  Aaron and a man with a shoulder sling, no doubt Duncan, were there to greet them.

  Aaron opened Mia’s door. “Shall I lift you?” he asked.

  “I don’t think my ribs could bear that, Aaron. I can walk. But thanks.”

  He came around her left side, and she pivoted slowly, bringing her legs out of the cab and sliding out the door. She wrapped her free arm around his waist so that she could lean against him for support. His was a gentle strength, and Mia trusted him.

  Duncan held open the screen door. The pain from every movement almost buckling her legs, Mia barely managed to acknowledge his kindness.

  “We’ll get properly introduced tomorrow, young lady. Let’s get you to your room.”

  * * *

  The dime was shiny. Sid reached for it but couldn’t quite touch it. It was stuck to a black velvet cloth outside her bedroom window. She stood on tiptoe, extending her arms as far as she could, but still, it was out of reach. Her mom’s voice wafted across her shoulders from somewhere behind her, soft and encouraging. You’ve almost got it, Cassidy Lynn. It’s right there. Goose bumps now. And warm tears.

  I can’t, Mom. Mom. Mom?

  Sid woke with a start, her breath sudden and sharp. Her mom was gone, but she could still feel the goose bumps on her arms and see the dime through tears that fell softly on the pillow. This time, the dime was the moon suspended above the horizon. Sid grabbed her phone and looked at the time. It was after one a.m. She hadn’t been asleep for more than an hour, and it had taken her at least that to will herself into the restlessness that defined her sleep patterns lately. The recurring dream no longer disturbed her as it once had, but she knew it would be hours before she’d be able to surrender to sleep again, so she kicked back what remained of the strewn bed sheets and shifted to work mode. Resignedly, she dressed and made her way to the stables.

  Sid barely had the shovel in her hands when the flash of headlights shone briefly through the board walls. She moved to the doorway, obscured by darkness, watching as Mia was escorted into the Harrises’ house. She knew her intense reactions toward Mia were rooted somewhere well beyond her current comfort zone. Maybe, sadly, her comfort zone period. True, Mia’s second misadventure on the Harris property in as many days demonstrated a lack of concern for personal safety, but that was none of Sid’s concern. And yet it was. For some indeterminable reason, the annoyance she’d felt had turned into something else. And as hard as Sid tried to focus on what was important—to balance the needs of her family’s farm and her responsibilities at the gallery—images of Mia penned, in danger and wounded, swirled in her mind and made her stomach flip.

  She was a lot tougher than Sid had first imagined: Even when confronted with unimaginable terror—a result of her own misstep—she’d had the presence of mind to grab the bull by its ring and preserve her life. Had she not done so, the outcome would have been worse. Much worse. Sid felt her throat constrict, and she fought the deep urge to follow the entourage into the house and make sure Mia was okay.

  She doesn’t need you to worry about her. She has Leah.

  Sid managed a shallow breath of relief and tucked her hair behind her ears. Turning her back on the bright shiny dime of a moon, she walked back into the barn to finish mucking the stalls.

  Chapter Ten

  It took everything Mia had to get out of bed. Every movement from the time she started lifting her head from the pillow—which she had little recollection hitting the night before—until her feet landed on the floor was a nauseating, excruciating negotiation. Her internal dialogue was not advocating in favor of the deal: Can you do this without opening your eyes? Why does my earlobe hurt? Try again without using your core muscles. Try without your arms. Why don’t you try again later? How many Percocet will this take? Who was the sadist who invented the childproo
f cap? Are you competing for a medal? You can hear people in the house, Mia. Stay put. Ask for help.

  The pain meds dulled the inner voice more effectively than they did the pain, and with what could be considered insanity as her driving force, she managed her way into the en suite bathroom.

  Well, that is quite the sight.

  Her reflection made her think of a drunk celebrity mug shot, her hair an almost comical combination of spiked and matted, with little resemblance to her usual neatly managed bob. Was that the remnant of a ponytail? No way to know, given it would take movement to get a better look, and movement was bad. Super bad. Better to direct what little energy she had to what she could readily see and reach. She stared at something that looked like a smear of mud on her neck and ear.

  Don’t look too closely; just go with mud.

  The flash bomb of rib pain struck again as she reached for a facecloth from the short stack on the vanity. The spears were back.

  Slowly. Yes. That’s it. One thing at a time.

  Once she had given her face and neck a good once-over with soap and hot water, she felt better and stood back to see what else she could accomplish. She was wearing a loose-fitting, V-neck Tragically Hip concert T-shirt—not hers—that smelled like vanilla or maybe freshly mown hay. It was sleeveless, so she could see the top of the gauze that wrapped her torso under her non-splint arm. She was bottomless and completely indifferent to what had happened to the clothes she was wearing the night before or who had been involved in their removal. For a moment, she found herself thinking about Sid and what it might feel like to have those strong sexy hands remove her clothes.

  Okay, clearly the bull did no damage to your libido. Get a grip.

  The gauze and the bandage on her hand would make proper showering impossible for today, so she opted for a camp shower.

  Pits. Bits. And pieces. Well, one pit at least. And whatever is reachable without actually bending over.

  The roominess of the shirt made it possible for Mia to “shower” without stripping, a task that would take her to a level of pain she couldn’t stomach. Wringing the facecloth was impossible with one hand, so she and the shirt were soaked by the end. Rather than withstand the omnipresent nausea to remove it, she improvised, using a hair dryer to pale the dark water splotches on the grey tee. She ran her good hand through her hair until the tangles surrendered into a reasonable shape.

  She showed up in the kitchen wearing a thick terry robe over the tee and holding the bottle of meds imploringly out in front of her. Isabel and Duncan sat at the table, their hands intertwined beside their coffee cups. At the sight of Mia, they broke contact, and Isabel jumped up to greet her.

  “Come sit down. I didn’t hear you get up, or I would’ve come to help. It’s so early…you mustn’t have slept much.”

  “No worries, I managed okay. Except for this.” She happily surrendered the bottle to Isabel and greeted Duncan.

  “I’m guessing Isabel is the only one in this kitchen with the ability to open the meds,” she said, nodding at his sling. “Good morning, Mr. Harris, thanks for your hospitality.”

  Duncan beamed toward Isabel, then back at Mia. “Duncan, please. And yes, if we want those dreaded pill bottles open, I guess we need to stay on Isabel’s good side. No need to thank us. Nuestra casa es su casa.”

  If the guest bedroom and the kitchen were any indication, the “casa” was nothing short of magnificent. The hallway from the bedroom opened into an impressive seating area with an obelisk pedestal table surrounded by four rail-back chairs. Two matching chairs stood against an interior wall near an arched doorway into what Mia guessed was a living room or possibly a dining room. On the kitchen side of the mission table was an L-shaped granite counter. The wall against the long side of the L was virtually all glass, with a sliding walk-out to the screened porch which faced the courtyard of buildings, including the livestock arena. She tensed involuntarily, then shuddered. The morning sun was half-risen on the horizon. The kitchen was not only comfortable, Mia had a strong sense that it was the hub of the home.

  While Duncan and Mia commiserated over their injuries, Isabel set a plate of fruit and toast on the table, topped up the coffee mugs, and joined them.

  “So, was it the same bull that got you?” Mia asked.

  Duncan laughed. “Oh, heck no. It wasn’t a bull at all, but once a rumour starts in this neck of the woods, well, it picks up speed like a spring wind. And it was hardly as dramatic as your adventure. I reached up to take down a bale of hay and came too far back over my head…ended up taking my arm down with it in not quite the right way. It’s healing up pretty well now.”

  Mia looked at the bandaged hand on her lap and wiggled her fingers. Isabel cast a concerned glance her way.

  “How are they feeling, little girl?”

  “I don’t feel any pain in my hand, truly. Maybe it’s a relativity thing?” She leaned back in her chair and winced, sucking air through her clenched teeth. Spears in. Spears out.

  “Let me see.” Isabel took her hand and slowly lifted it, supporting the elbow and taking care not to overextend beyond what the ribs were able to endure. She felt the fingertips, pinching each gently. The blood flowed back. With good circulation confirmed, Isabel unravelled the gauze and turned the palm up, peeling back the dressing to reveal a long, thin red welt, something akin to a burn, with blue and purple along the margins.

  Mia sighed with relief as the air hit the wound. “That feels much better, thank you.”

  “We can leave it off for a bit, but you’ll have to keep it covered until it heals a bit more. I have some aloe vera that will speed things up. I’m starting to think I need to charge extra for medical care.” She reached across the table to take Duncan’s hand. He pulled back a bit, but Isabel was insistent.

  “I take it not everyone knows about the two of you?” Mia ventured, recalling Leah’s caution about public knowledge. Does Sid know?

  “They will soon enough. Sid and I haven’t spent much quality time together, but it’s time.” Duncan smiled at Isabel, and Mia felt their connection. She wondered when their relationship had turned romantic, thinking back to the grief support groups she had attended and how much discussion centred around what was a “socially appropriate” amount of time between the death of a partner and dating. The consensus amongst survivors was that reconnection was immeasurable by something as objective as time and that a solidly subjective sense of the grief process and where each individual stood within it was the best determinant.

  “Well, your secret is safe with me. And I’m happy for you both. Is Sid around?” The memory carousel was spinning in her mind again, and she had a sense that she needed to thank her.

  “I think I heard her earlier,” Duncan replied. “Don’t be shocked if she comes across as a bit grumpy today. I think she was pretty shaken up by the events yesterday, and I saw her working in the barn well after you arrived last night…rather, this morning.”

  Great. More of grumpy Sid. Mea culpa this time.

  “I may need to apologize for that. I didn’t realize the bull was there. Well, I didn’t remember. He must’ve been behind the haystack until the very end of our session, and unfortunately, Milo saw him before I did. I’m sure it’ll take some extra time to settle your new stud now. I can imagine the event caused some additional problems for your daughter. I’m very sorry.”

  Duncan shook his head and smiled. “That bull will be fine. And so will Sid. She has a way of getting things done in spite of herself. A million irons in the fire but my girl always knows which iron to pull and when. I’m sure this”—Duncan squeezed Isabel’s hand—“won’t really surprise her if she doesn’t already know. She holds her cards pretty close to her vest.” He laughed as if something just occurred to him. “I guess that’s what makes her so good at poker.”

  “Poker? Really?”

  “Absolutely. We all play. Well, I mostly donate. If Sid isn’t walking away with the pot, then Isabel is. Aaron, too. Damn, everyone b
ut me!”

  “What’s this I hear about poker?”

  Mia felt a warm flush rise up her neck but pulled the robe tighter and higher. Sid was standing under the archway. Milo and Flynn wove around her feet. With her hair pulled back, she revealed classically high cheekbones and a strong but very feminine jawline. The mesmerizing eyes that had caught Mia’s attention in the midst of their first encounter were made even more stunning by the morning sun that shone through the kitchen windows. She was wearing a faded, sleeveless denim shirt and an even more faded pair of casual-fit Levi’s. These were tucked in to brown Blundstone boots that had clearly seen the inside of a barn with hay sticking out here and there around the soles. Mia felt conspicuous in her bare feet, T-shirt, and robe and wished she could fade away rather than be subjected to Sid’s disarming presence.

  The dogs were equally captivated, behaving as though the attractive woman was the only person in the room. It wasn’t until Mia composed herself enough to make a direct appeal that they broke away and joined her in the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Sid,” Duncan said. “I was sharing with Mia how I so enjoy making donations, but before we play again, I must warn you that I’ve been practicing.”

  “Oh, is that so, old man?” Sid folded her arms, head nodding, feet shoulder-width apart as if in showdown mode. “Well, I guess you’d better bring a lot of practice money because I can win it just as easily as the real thing.” At this, she smiled broadly—a big, genuine smile—and Mia found herself again entranced.

  I can see how she’d be good at her job. I’d buy a painting from her. Hell, I’d buy a used car from her.

  Sid turned to her. “And how are you this morning?” The smile was gone, the eyes now grey. The spell was broken.