Suffering the indignity of being waited upon hand and foot was humiliating. As soon as Roanette retreated from an effort to make him 'more comfortable', her younger sister would appear, bearing some snack, 'just in case.' Then Aredhel would show up with an intent look, requesting directions on how to create a more hospitable environment, and repair whatever damage Leif might have inflicted to the wrapping that kept him confined to the sofa.

Twenty. Four. Hours. It felt like a week.

If he were lucky, there would be an interruption by the now-present neko contingent, who were assisting in area security. With the male half of the centaur protections 'off for remedial training' according to Roanette, his ranch was swarming with furred beings that saluted a lot and had an intensive dislike for setting foot in the house without explicit invitation.

His fault, Leif supposed. But fixing that would take time. At the moment, it was one fewer group treating him as if he were dying. It was a relief in fact, although he was glad he didn't have to tell his family about it – they'd worry, although not so much as outsiders would think. Injuries happened, and the most probable reaction they'd do is ask one of his brothers to come out to the ranch and help out a few days. Given their busy lives, it would be best to avoid that particular situation as long as possible.

"Sir?"

Roanette's rubber-shod hooves clopped against the wooden floor, coming to a halt before his resting place, a long couch in the living room, positioned to see out the front and back windows. The woman looked solemn, hands folded before her belt. She waited for him to look up before continuing. "There is a new applicant for a house guest."

Leif gave her a blank look. "House … guest?"

"Yes sire," her hands worked, and stilled. "The Exchange program is designed to bring liminals in close proximity with humans, so that we may learn from each other. The Board has been evaluating potential candidates for some time, as you know."

"Aye …." Leif stretched out the single word, hoping it didn't betray his inward opinion. 'That bunch of addle-pated, pig-raising idiots.'

She shifted again. "They would like to test out the process on your premises. That is to say, they have a candidate that could be considered somewhat problematic. Sending her here would give them the opportunity to test out the standard Exchange process, and see if there are changes to be made before the entire program goes public."

He thought fast. "So … more guests out at … whaddya call your place? Havre?"

Roanette winced. "Nearly, sire. To be blunt, they wish to test it out on a human."

He gave her an unimpressed look. "Me."

Dark hair shook as she nodded. "That is correct."

Closing his eyes, Leif gave a silent count to ten. Then repeated it backwards. The situation didn't change, but a few extra breathing moments made a world of difference. Opening his eyes once more he met the concerned gaze of the statuesque centauride. "They want to test out a homestay program. With a rancher in the middle of nowhere."

Her shoulders moved in a helpless shrug. "It is as you say. I have spoken with some of the members of the American Board; they consider you a highly trustworthy individual."

"Huh." Leif picked up his carving knife, and the sheet of newspaper. In careful, methodical motions, he ran a thumb over a spot, frowned at its consistency, and resumed whittling. This was a new block, a small piece longer than his hand by a few inches, and half as deep. Rough traces of a horse's basic form were already in place, vague markings isolating a third of the block from the rest. There was already a small herd on the room's shelves, posed as if running across the wood. But this one was different.

"Milord?"

He looked up from the carving. "Mm?"

"Will you accept the offer?"

Leif drew the blade in a careful stroke, eliminating a rough portion with slow, methodical movements. A few more strokes passed before he answered. "Depends."

Roanette adjusted herself across the table, settling on a specialty-manufactured bench that had appeared one day. It was long and concave, fitting her equine abdominal region, cutouts for legs and what he guessed were buckles and straps for centauride clothing. Fashion was a closed book to him on the best of times – incorporating non-human subtleties left him hopelessly lost. After rocking a little, she placed her folded hands on the table, fixing her clear gaze on him. "What are your requirements, milord?"

A curl of wood corkscrewed away from his knife, landing on the newspaper. "First off, she can't sleep inside the house. I'm old-fashioned, can't really get comfortable with unmarried women sleeping in the same house as me."

She winced. "That might be a little difficult to communicate. Part of the Exchange's goal is to house liminals with prospective hosts, which may include attractive, single individuals like – that is to say, there may be issues in the future. The Board wants to test out all the variables possible."

"Exchange, isn't it?" Leif ignored her slip. "Learning about new cultures, right?"

"True," she agreed. "It is also expected that the Host will be learning about his guest's culture as well."

"I can do that," he responded. Another shaving hit the table, missing the newspaper. Calloused fingers flicked it into place. "But on my terms. What were they gonna do, drop off someone on somebody's porch and tell them they had to take 'em in?"

Roanette looked thoughtful. "Now that you mention it, the last report I heard from our counterparts in Japan mentioned focusing on rapid immersion techniques. Risky, my father believes. I'm not as certain."

"Good way to get someone shot," Leif grunted. "Around here, especially out West, a man's home is his castle; he wants to defend it if something's fixing to rob the place. It's a cultural thing … can't see it workin' in England. Those Brits can't even chop down a tree on their own property without signing a boat-load of paperwork … we haven't gotten that far. Yet."

A dark eyebrow arched at him, but the centauride chose to ignore the apparently confusing statement. "So you would demand the liminal would stay elsewhere, and visit your home? Is that not defeating the purpose of an Exchange program?"

Leif sighed deeply. "Look, Ro', the Program came to me. I didn't go looking for things to do, I have plenty enough o' my own. When it was just you and me at the Place, I slept in a tent. Getting a little cold now, and I don't want to send her to the barn. Just plain rude."

A troubled look crossed her face, something Leif missed as he switched to a finer blade. The smaller point made rhythmic sounds of metal on wood, drawing out small bits to fall. The lack of extra noise felt soothing; he could even hear the sound as wood shavings lighter than most insects footfalls hit the newspaper, some scattering other shavings and making a soft, whispering noise.

Time passed, a half hour at the outside he'd guess before the centauride spoke again.

"Is your leg in pain?"

Leif schooled his features to avoid the automatic flinch. "Not much."

A tentative note entered her voice. "I did not cause you harm, when you were transferred to the other house?"

"Nope, not your fault," he picked up a crescent-shaped blade. Its curled tip was perfect for what he had in mind. "I shoulda stayed put. Damn fool, me."

Another lengthy pause stretched out. The small motions of his knife went on, dropping the small bits almost in offbeat syncopation to the grandfather clock's own ticking. Outside, the wind started gusting again, a mid-Fall wind swirling dust and leaves in miniature tornadoes. It surprised him how fast time was passing – was it late October? No, it was early November, getting close to Christmas. Would the family come out again this year, or would they stay home?

"Would you consider allowing me to stay in your home, milord?" her voice was low, filled with a trepid caution Leif couldn't miss. Looking at her face, he could see mixed emotions roiling through their dark depths.

He paused, thinking.

'Tricky. Vulnerable, don't want to hurt her. Can't give a straight 'no' then. Can't spend too much time thinking either, or –'

Roanette rose in a clatter of hooves. "A – apologies, sire. If you will pardon me, - I – I must attend to my other duties. Excuse me, please?"

There was no mistaking the rising quaver in her voice at the last – the centauride was holding back tears. She rushed from the room, not waiting for his acknowledgement for the first time since he'd known her. A few seconds later the back door banged open, and a dark shadow galloped past the kitchen window, blurring into the afternoon sun. Gusts of wind curled back the curtains just enough for Leif to see shaking shoulders, and an almost frantic pace.

His knife bit into the wood with a vicious stab – Leif stared at the deep mark. It was in a place he'd cut out soon, but it betrayed more emotion than he was willing to admit.

With care, Leif put the knife back into its leather case, polishing its edge with meticulous care. The extra blades followed suit, sliding into their cases in sequential order. Each bright piece of metal contained potential, to create masterpieces of art, or just destroy if used improperly. It was an old lesson he'd been taught – take care of the tools, and they would take care of you.

'Am I taking care of them? Truly?' he put the last one away, and zipped the case shut. 'I let them into my home on a regular basis. Shoot, they come in anyway, when did I start letting that happen?'

Another thought resolved that issue. 'Guess I see 'em as neighbors? On a subconscious level at least. Good neighbors come and go all the time, I remember when the Klemms used to pop by all the time … mostly Jenny, chasing after Piotr those last few years. Wonder how they're doing these days?'

Realization was slow to arrive, but when it did, his eyes widened in horror. Leif folded the newspaper over, taking the schnitzels of wood in a small funnel. Setting it aside, he studied the wooden surface for a moment. Then he smacked his forehead into the hard material.

'Crazy.' Smack. 'Women.' Smack. 'Ow.' Smack.

Pain emanated from his thigh, and a dull sensation from his head. The physically higher appendage didn't hurt, but the brief impacts did freshen his senses for the moment. There was little he could do to run after the hysterical horse-woman, but perhaps he could understand the situation better.

If he could move.

Leif looked at his thigh. Under wraps, it looked deformed within his jeans, clothing he'd insisted upon wearing despite the protestations of multiple parties. Getting changed alone had been a challenge to his surprise – it had almost forced him to start raising his voice. Something one Did Not Do with guests. But the lumpy clothing was a symptom of the problem.

He shifted the table to one side, using his upper back muscles to do it. They twinged in protest, but complied. Without pausing to brace himself, Leif rose to his feet, letting out a pained hiss as the injury to his thigh made its staunch opinion known.

"Milord?"

Leif grabbed the wooden cane brought out of storage – being stubborn had no connection to being stupid – and took a step. "Yeah."

The elf appeared just out of eyeshot, moving into view like a ghost. "You are supposed to be resti – where is Roanette?"

"Out." Leif concentrated on his next step: literally taking another step across the room. Pain blazed, but the drugs were keeping it to a manageable throb. Irritating to a man accustomed to walking miles before breakfast.

Aredhel remained silent as he worked his way across the floor, accomplishing in minutes what would've taken seconds a day prior. "You rejected her?"

He stopped. "What? No. How?"

A shrug raised and lowered her slim shoulders. "She carried you on her back."

"So?" Leif's exasperated tone made no impact on the elf. "Wesson warned me. Might insult 'em. Pamphlets didn't say anything."

"Nothing?"

Leif started to make his way to the door. The dogs were not allowed inside, an old family rule – which he broke sometimes. When things got cold, he'd move their run to the barn where cattle and space heaters kept life comfortable. But at the moment, this was a hindrance.

Moving wheels squeaked into the room, accompanied by the slow, measured step of a centaur limiting herself to her travel partner. "Hey Leif – whoa. You're not supposed to be up and-"

"Shut up." Leif rarely got angry, really. But the next person telling him what to do would be introduced to the business end of his walking stick.

"Where's Roanette?" the red-haired centauride looked around. Leif ignored the tousled nature of her hair, and the likewise rumpled appearance of her blouse. If they wanted to be idiots he'd not hinder them. "She was out here was she not, milord?"

"Ain't. Nobody's. Lord." Leif punctuated each word with a firm placement of his cane, almost stabbing it into the floor. It was a useful object – he could understand its attraction. Taking another step, he grabbed the oversized cardigan Roanette had left behind, draped on the back of a chair, and lurched the last few steps to the back door. Fumbling with the handle, he managed to get it open with hands encumbered by both sweater and cane.

He whistled, a trilling note ascending like a question mark into the sky. The note hung there, absorbed by wind and nearby treeline. But its clear tones reverberated like birdsong.

The elf came into view, just from one side. "She will not come at your call. Not after what you've done."

He didn't respond, sparing a single dirty look in her direction, making her recoil. 'Mean. Sorry. But she'll recover. Ro' out there though … might not. November. Cold.'

Barking announced the presence of three excited Border collies. They bounced around him, careful to not bump into his side as if they knew of his pain. Loyalty, and their pure affection, warmed his heart. Their enthusiastic approach raised a small dust cloud inches from his jean-covered legs. Proud of their accomplishment the trio bounced in place, eyes locked on him, waiting and ready for the next job at hand.

Leaning over, Leif gestured at the cardigan in hand. "Eugene. Scheherazade. Sniff. Smell."

The two leaned forwards, wuffing deep breaths, before looking back at him. They shoved their muzzles back into the cardigan, looking away, then back, eager to keep going. The processing was almost visible, how the scent transmitted from cloth to canine brain, how their muscles tensed as another source was found.

"Dunyazade, sit. Stay." Leif focused on the female collie. "Good girl."

Splitting his attention to the first two he held out the cloth once more. "Roanette. You remember her? Big girl. Good with horses. Roanette."

Eugene gave him a look questioning his basic intelligence. His mate just scanned the area, in case of approaching coyotes or sheep. She'd been trained to herd sheep at one point, but adapted well to cattle.

"Guard Roanette." He focused his attention to how he spoke; animals were uncannily good at divining intention. Leif poured his focus into the problem at hand; the woman needed protection, she was lost on his territory, indirectly because of him. He'd do all in his power to see to her safety, even if she hated him. "Find Roanette. Guard."

Both dogs were now standing at attention, ears standing straight, waiting for the final command.

"Guard Roanette," he said one last time, then waved in the direction he'd last seen the centauride flee. "Go."

Black-and-white blurs bounded across the back road, eyes focused on things Leif couldn't see. They barked excitedly, back to work, running fast on familiar ground. He caught a glimpse as they leapt the back fence into the near pasture, and tore across the grass-covered hill like piebald greyhounds.

Near his feet, Dunyazade whined, shuddering as if in pain. Leif tossed the cardigan back into the kitchen, where it caught on a chair, and used the freed hand to comfort the abandoned dog. Calloused fingers found the short hairs behind its ears, eliciting a half-hearted groan. "I know girl," he muttered. "I know."

[break]

Leif stumped through the barn, leaning on the cane more than he liked. In his other hand was a five gallon bucket, filled with oats. Such a thing weighed over forty pounds; heavier than the equivalent volume in water. Aredhel was already passing him again, both arms hanging low with a pitchfork filled with straw. She'd insisted on helping, despite his protestations. In truth it was more a show on his part, not that he liked it.

Reaching the far side of the barn, he leaned his cane against the wall, angling it so the handle hooked over a board. He did not want it to fall again.

"Hey Morgan," he tipped the grain bucket over the trough. Oats poured into the plastic tray, modernized from the wooden slats of his father's time. Not all of them, a pound was good enough. "Enjoy."

Oats all the time was bad for horses, but once in a while was good. He moved to another stall, pausing to rub the nose of another horse's soft, velvety nose. "Hey. It's what's for dinner, aye?"

Patches snorted disapproval at the pun, rolling her eyes.

He chuckled, pouring a measure into her grain-holder, a recycled Folger's coffee canister. "Easy girl, not like a few jokes hurt anyone."

"Do you speak with your animals all the time?" Aredhel waked past again, holding a pair of buckets.

Leif blinked. Each of the containers was filled to the brim with water, over seventy pounds combined. She wasn't even dangling her arms with the weight, like those unused to such exercise. He shelved the thought. "Sure."

"Why?" she emptied the buckets, sluicing away the refuse collected from the stall. "It's not as if they understand."

"Well," he thought about it, and shrugged. "Habit. Gets 'em to know my voice."

"Huh …" the elvish woman dropped a bucket, tipping it over to drain the last few drops. "I do not understand. How can you be so kind to animals, and so cruel to people?"

The question stopped Leif mid-scratch. 'What in the name of sour apple butter …?'

Aredhel tipped over the other bucket. "Do not mistake me. You are very kind, more than I'd expected humans to be after my research. But you have been very cruel at the same time. I believe some might find such behavior as an attractive quality, but I can assure you, I do not."

'Uh … her lips are moving, but I'm not understanding.' Leif startled when Patches nudged him, insisting on more scratches.

"What … exactly … are you talking about." He left it as a statement.

The elf made an exasperated sound. "Ugh! How I wish I knew if you were pretending or are honestly this dumb!" A shocked look crossed her face. "I apologize, that was rude of me. Please-"

"Nah, nah," Leif waved his hand. "Honesty's never wrong. 'Pecially if'n it's meant to help."

She twisted her braid over one shoulder, and started re-working its length. "You rode her. She offered you her back, and you sat upon it. Among centaurs, such an action is considered a marriage proposal. Did you truly not know of this?"

Facts tumbled around Leif's brain like grain in his combine. Memories of the night ran through his mind like the old VHS set to fast-forward. A set pertaining to a certain centaur's panic, and sudden formality entering her speech as she offered her own back … her nervousness. At the time it was a crush, a simple thing young women went through on a monthly basis. But a marriage proposal?

Heaviness bowed his shoulders. He leaned into Patches's neck, hand twining her mane. "Oh. Oh."

"Yes, oh." Aredhel faced him, arms akimbo. "She's in love with you, or at least thinks she's in love. Rejecting her today, on the full moon?"

"Full moon?" Leif turned his head, still leaning on the horse's strength.

"Of course," the elf straightened out. "It's rather important. You were off the ranch for the last one, I assumed you knew …?"

"Red, just tell me." Leif felt energy to argue.

"Well," she began. "The Full Moon, among most liminals, is a heightened emotional state. Hormones are rather high, especially those enhancing … ah … strong desires for procreation."

Leif sagged further. "They're in heat."

She winced. "Blunt, but not inaccurate."

Rhythmic crunching sounds from the grain bins made their comforting sound. An old, familiar aroma of fresh hay, old leather and the honest scent of horses wafted in the air. Leif took it in, lifting his gaze at last to the descending rays cast through the barn's open doors. They stabbed through motes of dust, dancing their ineffable dance. The breeze kicked up more dust, sending the beams into greater relief against the swirling cloud, only to fade once more.

"Consequences?" Leif found a curry brush, and began using it.

"Well," Aredhel sat down on the overturned bucket. "If it were a formal arrangement, you would be expected to ask the Chiron's blessing – which is difficult in this case, as Roanette is his daughter. If he refused, it would be essentially down to your forcing the issue, or Roanette rejecting his stance. You two would then elope somewhere, and hope to come back after performing some great deed to be allowed back into the herd."

Leif continued brushing Patches, who was making pleased grunting sounds. "And now?"

A deep sigh heaved through her lungs. "You do realize that you are asking advice from her romantic rival?"

He paused, giving her a Look.

"I understand, you are not looking for a relationship," she backpedaled. "But one does not have to feel romantic interest in order to form a partnership. Arrangements of such nature were once common, you may trust me when I say that they are an old tradition. One older than elves. My mother was one of them, I must say."

Steady brushing sounds met her words. Patches looked half-asleep, eyelids almost closed as she relaxed into the sensation.

The elf cleared her throat. "In this case, since Roanette did not use the precise invitation, and it was a case of medical emergency, it could be seen as an accident, or act of necessity. For Lady Yidderman, however, it is deeply personal. She holds you in great esteem, and to be rejected in such a way …."

"Didn't reject her," Leif found himself forced to say. Honesty was the best policy, as the saying went. But it wasn't the least painful. "Can't … rightly say I'd have accepted, but I didn't know what was goin' on."

"In hindsight," Aredhel leaned back on the bucket, raising a hand to count off fingers. "She will be humiliated, or at least will feel such an emotion." The bucket inched across the floor, metal handle rattling. "She'll likely want to apologize, but how can she after sinking so low? No, I believe she'll either just give up and hand herself over to the chargers, or return and beg forgiveness."

"Chargers?" Leif paused in his ministrations.

Aredhel dropped her hands. "Yes. The soldiers that came to your aid? Well, to reiterate the literature Agent Wesson was supposed to have given you, there are three general types of centaurs: the athletic variety, the combat-oriented kind, and the support. They're sometimes called the palfreys, chargers, and auxilium respectively, although the latter are sometimes known as 'dairy'. It's not just milk production, but it is one of their more renowned capabilities."

"Roanette and her siblings are further in the support category, although Sophette's mother is of fighter's bloodlines on both sides. Their father, Chiron Yidderman, is … well … different. He is much more reasonable than many centaurs of his kind. A mutant, if you will."

"Reasonable, how?" Leif hands dropped to his sides, listening with an intent look.

Aredhel shrugged. "In the old days, centaurs were considered monsters. Sometimes the stories were true. The less combative centaurs tried to make peace with everyone, but that didn't help in the end. The more peaceful breeds died out, leaving the violent cultures alive."

"Violent. This relates to Roanette how?"

Aredhel met his gaze squarely. "If she is desperate enough, she will make no objection to becoming part of the charger's breeding stock."

Pure silence filled the barn. Leif stood in place, unmoving. His eyes closed, then opened, and blinked. A slow frown spread across his face.

"Well she's actin' stupid."

Aredhel's expression made a slight dissatisfied twist. "I cannot tell if you are being deliberately callous, or if you are just an uncaring man. How can you say that? She offered you her body and soul, and you call her stupid?"

A long sigh escaped Leif's chest. "Ain't sayin' she ain't gettin' a raw deal. Just sayin' she's thinking with her heart. Not her head."

An exasperated sound emanated from Aredhel's throat. "What do you expect? Liminals survived the Dark Ages on instinct; our populations are slow to increase. They – we – are in much closer tune with our instincts than Man, it's within our very nature."

"Aye," Leif nodded calmly. "That be my fault indeed. I'm doin' what I can. But …."

He let the sentence drift off. There wasn't much possible to say. How did one convey honest regret, an earnest desire to help? How could one help when their very presence inflicted pain?

She paused again. "Very well. If you would accept my advice as well?"

Leif gave the horse a final pat, and left the box. He hooked the curry brush over the wall. "Sure."

The elf stood up, staring at the floor, worrying her lower lip with her teeth before looking up. "You may wish to consider your commitment to this course. Yes you have dedicated your land, there is no greater commitment one may give in many respects; wars have been fought over less. But to Host these people, those whom will become much more in the world, means that not only will they come to know your ways, but you must understand their ways. Centaurs are a tactile race, once their heart is given."

She turned, studying him for a moment. "I have seen your family. You do not embrace each other, do you?"

"No." Leif leaned against the wall, taking the weight off his injured thigh. "Never been the huggin' type."

Aredhel nodded. "Culture clash. My mother experienced it when she met my father. He was not of the elven folk, but she loved him all the same. He," she paused. "Did not agree with her family's demands."

Not knowing what to say, Leif took safety in the security of silence. A slow nod indicated hearing her words, yet allowed the interpretation of what was being said open.

She hesitated again. "Sir. The world is changing. Or it is about to, in a way no one has ever experienced. This land, this realm, will be the center point for much of the United States. You, sir, are the central pillar of this liminal community. If you do not learn to adapt, as do we, I fear for the future."

Her booted feet walked away, soft noises on the dusty floor. His attention was drawn to the thick powder, once gravel, and would be again someday. Perhaps quarry process this time, instead of crushed stone? Either would work. Care would be needed, to ensure the horses didn't get sharp rocks in their hooves – so perhaps just enough for the driveway. New wooden flooring would be needed for the stalls themselves in a few years – that would need to be considered as well.

"They don't spend much time in here anyway," Leif muttered. He glanced over at the few occupied stalls, at the soft eyes looking back. "Just had new gravel in, not too long ago?"

His boot toed at the thin dust, seeking out the heavier rocks below. Years of hard use ground the rock into pure dust – not unlike himself, he mused. The life of a rancher, or farmer, was not easy; fulfilling, but not for the weak of heart. That brought back more memories, trickling across unused portions of the mind. Or, at least, not used in the way he was now seeing.

Finding the bucket once more, Leif pushed it next to the stall, and eased down. His leg stretched out to one side, the only concession to the pain. Dunyazade, tail low, wandered close and sat by his side, just out of contact, but near enough so that he could feel the warmth emanate from her body. Absent fingers scratched her ears, trailing down into a comforting rub on her neck, just where the collar compressed her fur. Thoughts trickled through his brain, slow but steady – distilling the recent past into an unsteady vintage.

"So." Words meant nothing, core tenet that held a world of meaning. Actions spoke louder than words, not just to liminals. If words held meaning, it was to say that words were worthless.

Dunyazade shuffled closer, raising her nose to touch Leif's arm, then dropping down again to lie on the floor, content to wait. She was more patient than Eugene, more willing to sit, even as a puppy. A good dog. Not perfect, but good.

"Ach," Leif leaned into the smooth wood, sanded down by generations of misbehaving children. Force of habit ran his fingers over the wood, tracing patterns over its stained surface. Its inherent whorls mimicked his thoughts running free. "Been a long time, hasn't it, Dunya?"

A soft whine agreed below eyesight.

He sighed, looking back at the rafters. Spending time in the barn comforted him; it was a second home. Why hadn't he tried going there before? Wesson rarely entered a place he believed filled with manure and dirt. A good barn was clean, hygienic enough to eat off the floor in some cases. The smooth posts were not present due to accident; long hours spent in all seasons had done it. No child was perfect after all.

"Lotta memories here."

The courteous sigh of acknowledgement highlighted the opinion.

"Remember when I went out hunting?" Leif gestured at a segment of the wall. "After seeing Davy Crockett for the first time. When was that? Twenty years ago?"

Dunyazade nudged his hand.

"Yeah. Went out there with nothing but a big knife and a lot of attitude. Heh. Managed to get the drop on that deer though. Da' was proud, even if he couldn' say it. Still have the antlers somewhere. Up at The Place, I think. Tanned breeches, too."

Companionable silence met his words.

"Before your time, girl." A quick apologetic stroke tousled the dog's ruff, before a quick reverse path straightened it out again. "Before your mama's time, too."

He continued stroking the rough fur, working muscles under his sure hands. "Grandpa told me about fishin' in the river. Back when it ran through our property. Used to have all kinds of fish, yeah? Trout. Northern. Sturgeon now and again. Remember what he said great grandpa said? Back when the railroads were going through. Buffalo. Lots of buffalo."

An interested groan emanated from under his fingertips. Or perhaps it was a sound of pleasure – dogs enjoyed a good backrub. Almost as much as humans.

"Think the buffalo herd is doin' well. Haven't checked on it in a few months." Leif pondered that. "Hunting season soon. Should look into it. Like old times."

Memories flashed past, darting like the swallows dwelling in the rafters. Some drew a smile, others, more of a wince. But he could visualize each one as if it were a few hours before. Riding across the Plains on horseback, learning to drive the ATV for the first time. Teaching his younger brothers how to field dress a deer, bloody though the job was, and how it was similar but different from cleaning fish. There had been a large creek once, more of a river – until the neighbors upstream had dammed it up. Good farmland had been lost because of it, but an opportunity to buy up a neighbors place had arisen for the same reason.

Good memories. Bad memories. All of them cycled and grew in his mind. Recent memories made their entrance, a proud, happy centauride and haughty elf. Both dependent upon him in a way that made him shudder.

He made a decision.

"Come on Dunya. You're getting' a little heavy," the gravid nature in her abdominal region belied the truth. "But I think we can drive out and see how things are gettin' on at Centaur Central. Havre. Whate'r. Aye?"

The Border collie yipped a sound of contentment.

"Unanimous. I'll get the truck."

A/N: A bit early, but I had some time off, and enjoy writing. Have a great Columbus Day, Halloween, or whatever you're celebrating this month!