Skies changed color all the time, the most common a massive shift between the pure black darkness of night and the almost blank white hue of noon. Sometimes, the view depended on where one stood. Sailors knew that fact very well; the dark blue of deep seas blending into the greener, shallow portions made the sky reciprocate in kind. It had been said, in ancient times: 'As above, so below.' There, the reverse was also true.

On land the same principle applied. Lush vegetation softened the harsh glare, while bare rock reflected the sun's fury with equal fervor. Snow performed the task to an even greater extent, granting sunburns on the more fair-skinned folk in overcast conditions, forcing them to wear protection at all times.

Leif nodded slowly, watching the progress of his largest herd meander across the back forty. It held a certain rugged beauty; hills that provided direction for water, and tree lines planted by people long since gone provided shelter from the wind. His land was blessed, encompassing large quantities of variable terrain. Right now, the long waving grasses rippled in darkened whorls under the wind, land he'd inherited from his grandfather. To the west, the vegetation became sparse, buttes and even a portion of a mountain range ran through his property. There his cattle wouldn't graze, but the change in geography was welcome all the same.

His ATV gunned to life between his legs, rumbling in the fashion all heavily-used four-wheelers did. Ordinarily, he'd have ridden a horse, but checking fences on the furthest stretches didn't always work well with the equine-nature. He whistled once, a sharp rising tone. Within seconds, the heavy weight of a border collie landed on the back luggage rack, followed by an excited yap-yap.

The engine rumbled louder, and Leif accelerated. His cattle, Black Angus all, didn't bother doing anything more strenuous than looking up. They were well trained, unlike what his neighbors achieved. If coyotes came around, they'd circle themselves, turning a straggling line of walking meat into a defensive powerhouse. Very few creatures were willing to risk their well-being against a wall of half-ton herbivores, each specialized in stomping little furry things. By comparison, other cattle would panic, running for the nearest shelter, leaving the weak behind. Some farmers just didn't want to take the time to do things right.

To that end, Leif wore the same style clothing every time he made his rounds. Anyone that looked differently than he received suspicious treatment – exactly how he liked it.

Turning slightly, the ATV wheels found the twin ruts they'd cut into the ground. They dropped into place, reducing the jostling. An increased breeze lashed the tops of taller brush against his legs; hints of inclement weather.

Getting back to the house took time, over half an hour. En route Leif kept an eye on the sky; the western horizon looked dark, foreboding. Looks like rain, he thought.

Eugene barked agreement. He always agreed … within reason.

Think we'll have time to finish harvesting the barley? Leif squinted at the mountains, beyond the edge of his property. Their peaks were invisible in the gloom, foretelling bad weather imminent. No … better not. Take too long. Shoot.

The collie commiserated with a high-pitched whine.

Wind grew faster, whipping the tall grasses into a tossing frenzy of motion. Leif could watch the individual gusts, tracking their progress as the greenery roiled through its paces. Trees, already swaying under the force, bent further in waves. He frowned, opening up the throttle. It was really turning out for the better, that he hadn't ridden a horse; by the time he reached home the storm would likely be on him. Unusual; the disturbance must have picked up speed since his last check on the radio.

Still … there was a certain thrill in racing a storm. Leaning lower, Leif accelerated yet more, letting his machine tear through the shorter grass on the cow path.

Home was only minutes away.


To his surprise, there a large black sedan had parked in his driveway. A man in a black suit was sitting on the porch under the extended roof, safe from the infrequent gusts. Most ranch-style houses had them for this very reason.

He waved at the figure, continuing his current route to the barn. A few things needed to be done before the rain hit. As he approached, another pair of border collies ran out to meet him, barking a welcome. Eugene, on the back of the ATV yapped a friendly response, perhaps a bit smug at his elevated position. The pair followed Leif into the barn, the dimmer lighting forcing him to slow down.

"Easy girls, down." Leif shouted to them, raising his voice to be heard over the machine. Both border collies abandoned their attempts to leap at him, descending to an alert seated position. "Good girls, that's my girls." He ruffled their ears, scratching them the way they liked it. "How about some food, eh?"

Their seated position sprang into a standing one, so fast he hadn't seen the normal intermediary phases. "Alright then. Let's get you and Eugene fed."

Checking on both horses in the barn took little time. Leif added some hay to their mangers, but left the water. Rain would channel through the gutters far faster than they'd need, the excess wash through the overflow. Water generally wasn't a problem on his ranch – a great blessing – but enough wasted opportunities tended to wait until reaching critical mass before becoming a problem.

After emptying nearly half a bag of kibble into three bowels, Leif finally left the barn, closing the main door most of the way. The black car still remained parked before his house, the dark suited man seemingly content to remain seated. That gave him both a worrying sensation, and a comforting one. Anyone willing to sit for however long this man had either really wanted something, or just possessed the patience to negotiate properly.

Leif paused between the house and the barn, raising his eyes to the western sky. Dark, looming clouds billowed, dropping long sheets of rain in the distance. He closed his eyes, letting the stiff breeze play over his face and tug at his hat, feeling the brushing touch die away into terrifying calm. Lightning illuminated the inside of his eyelids when he blinked, the follow-up thunder shaking his bones.

Unhurriedly, he walked to the porch. Aged wood creaked underfoot, solid enough to have lasted nearly a century, yet remain sound. Leif tilted his Stetson back, touching the brim respectfully. "Howdy."

A man, short in stature but emanating a nearly tangible aura of officious authority, rose to his feet. "Greetings Mister Larsen; Agent Wesson. My apologies for coming unannounced, do you have a few minutes to speak with me?"

A heavy gust of wind made the empty rocking chair next to Leif lean forwards a few degrees, then rotate back. Raindrops spattered past the overhang, the first scouts of the storm. He wondered if there was a connection between the weather and the sudden appearance of his guest. Don't be ridiculous; if this man needed help, he could probably use a fancy satellite phone or something.

Leif opted to give the man a nod, opening his unlocked front door. Gesturing to the man, he entered, flipping on a few lights to relieve the overcast gloom. The man muttered something under his breath, and followed.

Inside, Leif turned off an old television set, silencing the ambient noise it generated. Using the boot-jack in the hall, he pried off the thick-soled footgear, dropping them on a plastic mat near the doorway. His guest watched, confused for a moment, before slipping off his own spotless patent-leather shoes.

Manners. A good start. Leif hung his Stetson on the hat rack next to the boots, just above a second cowboy hat, dust on its brim. His own hat, like his boots, told a story just by its appearance. Store-bought cowboy hats emphasized spotless pristine surfaces, and a curve even enough to calculate geometry problems. His hat showed character; a brim with sagging edges from exposure to the elements, bleached sides in uneven patches, and a misshapen crown. The other hat, similar to the one he'd just let rest, shared the uneven appearance, but looked older.

"Cup of joe?" Leif asked. His feet were already moving, leading the man to his kitchen.

The man's shoulders relaxed. "That would be delightful."

Being alone on a ranch had, perhaps, reduced Leif's capacity for small talk. At the least, it appeared to have stunted Agent Wesson's attempts at the same; several times the man had started to say something, then subsided. Leif's demeanor didn't encourage garrulous conversation, lacking any reaction to directed statements from the agent. There's no need, whatever needs to be said will be said when necessary. Talk was cheap; actions spoke volumes, and the man had done nothing but attempt half-constructed sentences and worried motions.

Uninspiring, to say the least.

On his own part, Leif let his hands perform nigh without direction. The small device whirred to life, heat in the underplate warming the glass container. Fresh ground coffee beans poured into the upper filter, wafting the scent into the air.

The small man cleared his throat nervously. "Have you … perhaps heard of liminals?"

Leif leaned against the counter, scratching at his head. "Some kind of lightbulb company?"

"Not … exactly."

Rain pelted down on the roof, lashing away the dust and grime built up over the past few days. Wind jumped at the chance to cause more mischief, flinging the downpour into as many directions as possible. Fortunately, that meant the windows to the southeast were relatively untouched; perfect for just sitting and relaxing.

Leif poured out two mugs of the steaming, fragrant liquid. "Sounds tricky. Siddown."

The officious man gratefully accepted the beverage, sipping at it almost immediately. "Good heavens, that's strong!"

"Strong enough to keep a man awake all night if he has too," he agreed. Before saying anything else, he reached his rocking chair, the one that had been in the family for three generations, and settled down. It felt comfortable, strong and supporting. Every family owned something similar, whether a pair of spoons on the kitchen wall, or an ancient rifle that rested in a place of honor. Most carried far more than just one heirloom, making the entire populace an eclectic hodgepodge that would bring museum curators to their knees.

Agent Wesson mimicked his action, sitting down on a four-legged chair. "Let's just say I am working with the government on behalf of a large group interested in acquiring property here in Montana. It has to be, by necessity, fairly large. Their specifications for the land are exacting, but can be understood to be roughly fifty percent grassland and fifty percent mountainous terrain."

"Mister Larsen," he paused to take another sip, wincing as he did so. "Your property fulfills many of the requirements. Would you be interested in selling part of your land? I can guarantee above-market pricing, and favorable terms."

Such a question didn't require deliberation. "Nope. Not interested."

The little man's shoulders fell. "I had not really expected a ready agreement, to be honest. According to the records, you are listed as owning over thirty thousand acres, and leasing another fifteen thousand from Mrs. Olinger … I believe …" a tablet of advanced design appeared in Wesson's hand, clicking twice before chirruping negatively. "Is there a signal out here?"

"Nope," Leif said again. He stretched his unburdened feet out, wriggling the toes in their blessedly unconfined liberty. One of the windows on the far side sat open a few inches, letting a delicious cool breeze wash over him, almost pure bliss. "Don't need it."

A look of surprise planted itself firmly on Wesson's face. "N-no one uses a cell phone out here? I'd imagine it to be a critical method of communication!"

Leif snorted. "Handy little gadget, I'll give you that. But we've never needed it before, don't need it now. 'Sides, not enough people."

Wesson blinked. "Not enough … people?"

"Yeah." Leif reached to one side, picking up a book that lay on a table. Its well-thumbed pages flipped open to a column of numbers, pencil markings neatly highlighting individual rows. "Montana's a big state Mister Wesson. Big farms. The Wilks have over three-hundred and fifty hundred thousand acres, and the Galts have near two-fifty. Has to be big; real dry out here. Spread apart. Nearest town is close to forty miles away, maybe fifty people clumped together between there and here. Main highway is seventy miles off if it's an inch, and it costs money to set up towers. No one wants to spend that much on maybe a dozen people. We got landlines though, had to pay over two grand every other mile for installation."

Old wood creaked. "Me? I'm small potatoes compared to them. Sure, average in-state farmer has two thousand acres, but they haven't been here as long as I have. Plus," The wood creaked on the rocking return motion, "I have water. Plenty folks don't. Bit of a problem in a drought."

"As long as you have?" Wesson pounced. "I was under the impression that you were fairly young?"

Leif slowed his rocking motion. "Yah. So?"

An expression of impatience crossed the agent's face. "Back to the subject, why will you not sell? You could purchase land anywhere else with the amount we'd be paying you."

"Don't want someone else's land. Got my own." Leif jerked a thumb at the open window, perfectly showcasing the storm's fury beyond. Fresh, damp air blew into the room in a refreshing breeze. Colder temperatures would have necessitated a fire be lit in the solidly built fireplace on the inner wall, maybe he'd build one anyway. "Four generations my family's been here. Longer on my Ma's side. Like the Good Book says: 'be content with what you have,' and I got mine."

The conversation didn't appear to be going the way the agent had hoped. "Would you consider leasing some of your land then, if you will not sell?"

That was not a subject Leif wanted to open. Leasing gave folks the hope of ownership; the same way he hoped to someday own the verdant fields he rented from the Olingers. "Not really interested in that either. Maybe the Kaldens down the road might be in for that?"

"Ah." The agent pulled back, taking another sip from the mug in hand. His eyes crossed the room, taking in the furnishings.

Leif let him think, in turn observing the little man. He hasn't prepped much, that's for sure. Someone sent him out here because numbers lined up right.

"Agent … Wesson," he spoke up. Hopefully, the pause before speaking the man's surname suggested doubt. "I don't really think you understand. My family has been in pretty much every conflict in the Good 'ol U.S. of A. Both World Wars, the Civil War … heck. I got a grandpa with a few great's attached in the Revolution. What I mean is, we love our land. Not worship you understand, but we do take care of it. So then …" He deepened his voice, leaning forward for emphasis. "Why in heck are you trying to take it?"

Wesson jumped in place. "Well, you see, that is classified. Unfortunately. But not for long!"

Leif just looked at him.

"I mean, the information that would make this all clear for you is … Top Secret."

"Top Secret," Leif snorted. "A fancy way of saying a buncha secretaries, sergeants and senators can know about it, but not the folks you're stabbing in the back."

The agent's hands rose, then fell. "I can certainly see why you would feel that way. But my orders are clear, what I'm working with is big. Huge. Literally changing the world in a fundamental way. Generations will consider what is about to happen more important than the creation of the atomic bomb."

"And yet," Leif let the rocking chair pull him back, settling into its wooden embrace. "You want me to sell my land, for something I don't know anything about, and don't really care."

"I represent your country!" Wesson shot back. "You may not respect me, but it is your patriotic duty to support your country!"

Leif snorted. "If you are my country's representative, we're borked." The red flush creeping up from under Wesson's collar tempted him. Thoughts about provoking the man into unwise action danced through his head … until he cleared them out. Feeble or not, this man did have a point. "Let's start small. Who are you, and who do you work for?"

Wesson carefully pulled his hands together, eyeing the rancher. "As I said, I am Agent Wesson, of the State Department. My division is commonly referred to Special Relations … that is to say, liaising with organizations that wield powers similar to nations, but are not internationally recognized."

A silence stretched as the grandfather clock slowly marked time. Wesson glared at him, obviously uncomfortable.

Leif rocked slowly, letting his thoughts wander. It'd been true, that each ancestor had been in major conflicts. Consequently, he had a keen awareness of national behaviors, and the potential ramifications thereof. Groups with the power of nations … sounds like terrorists. Or a big company. Aliens too, on the outside edge … but unrecognized? What does that mean?

Before he could voice a question, the telephone rang. He decided to ignore it for now, let the answering machine take the message. It clicked on, "Hey Larson, Earl here. I need some help with the cattle; Billy's down in Wyoming, and I kinda need the help by Thursday. If you can lend me a hand, give me a ring."

Not a problem, Leif decided immediately. Patches hasn't had a chance to do anything fun since that rodeo a few months back. Thursday, that's day after tomorrow. Gotta get the chores done.

"Well," he rose to his feet. "Thank you kindly for your offer, but I don't want to sell. There's plenty of people here that probably have what you want though, I can put out a few calls, see if they're interested?"

The agent slowly rose as well. His dapper suit looked subdued, "I didn't want to ask this, but would you be willing to host people on your ranch? The … Bill … is going to become public knowledge in less than three months, and I need to find a place for them to stay as soon as possible. As I said, you will be more than fairly compensated for hosting some very important guests …."

Leif didn't hear the rest. His mind sped immediately to a pathetic sight he'd seen; the oldest ranch in the state. It had been a symbol for independence and self-reliance, the kind of rugged individualism that separated farmers from the pathetic folk who couldn't survive without takeout every other night. But the owner had decided to capitalize on the fame, taken clients for riding horses, playing at driving tractors, stooping to reservations and room service.

The last he'd seen of the owner, the man had been catering to a wealthy investor, agreeing to remove a tree row because it 'ruined the view.'

Guests? On MY ranch? The thought imploded, cowering to the back of his mind in fear.

"Listen Mister 'Special Relations' Agent-That-Won't-Talk-Clearly. I do not run a 'dude' ranch!" Leif realized too late that he was clutching the coffee mug with lethal intensity. Wesson's eyes were impressively large, pupils shrinking to mere pinpoints.

Leif released the presumptuous fool from his gaze. "Good day, Mister Wesson. I'm not interested in any of your offers. Now please do us both a favor: Get. Out."

Silently, Wesson retreated. The door's squeak could barely be heard under the downpour outside, but slammed harshly.


A/N: Not my normal genre, but a friend introduced me, and my biology background can't resist spinning theories about liminals. And I love to tell stories. Special thanks to Silverbug28 for his advice and kind patience. His own work is a bit more humorous, of you'd like to check it out!