"This isn't Namby-Pamby-Pretty-Pony Camp! This is Yew-Ess Monster Corps! Now get off your collective fat asses you sons-of-mothers, and give me ten kilometers! On the double Mister!"

Leif let the absurdity wash over him. Perhaps if he experienced enough, it would begin to make sense. Or perhaps the inanity would cease bothering him. For whatever reason, this was the correct place to seek enlightenment. According to the feline commando-doctor-person, the centaurs were training in a pasture less than a quarter mile from the small housing development taking shape with alarming rapidity. With a sigh, he looked over the terrain once more.

"If you don't start a-runnin' they'll need to call the Devil beater for your funeral you gink! Dekko me Army banjo if you don't believe me!"

The terms were unfamiliar, but he could deduce the intent by watching Gramps wave a shovel at a centaur lagging well behind his comrades. Old though he seemed, the man managed to catch up to the jogging centaur, and deliver a stinging slap across the rump with its breadth. Surprised, the centaur jolted forwards, sending clods of earth flying.

"And keep gittin' until you git back!" Gramps finished. By now the rest of the group was accelerating at a near-terrified pace. The skinny man stood, arms akimbo before shaking his head and meandering back towards Leif's F-150.

Leif looked down, fiddling with his pocketknife, and looked up again, to see the elder man a foot away. Startled, he glanced to where the group had left, then back at the man standing before him. "Gramps."

The other man grunted a response, before stooping to ruffle the Border collie's ears. He'd always liked Leif's dogs. Had even owned a few – long ago it seemed.

Silence spread between the two, a comfortable one. Some neighbors needed to talk, had to talk. Their presence felt obliged to be established with so much sound it became hard to hear one's self think in the cacophony.

Leif appreciated the older man's silence, but needed answers.

"Spriggan, huh?"

Gramps snorted, his shifting body failing to make the truck body sway. "Aredhel?"

"Yah."

"Figures. Her Ma was cute, but never could shut up."

Wind brushed the grasses still standing, a chill sensation burning in its midst. It promised snowfall, not unusual for Montana at this time of year. A bit early, but not unreasonable. It brought a fresh smell, direct from the cloud titans spilling out of the inter-continental mountain range forming the nation's backbone. Their mountainous peaks were already starting full winter, well above farming elevation but still visible on a clear day. Ranchers took such warning with all due seriousness. Like he should.

"It's true?" Leif kept his eyes on the mountains off in the distance. Their white shoulders were lower than the previous week. He was glad harvest was finished. Winter was coming.

Gramps shrugged. "Yah."

"Huh." Leif considered his next move, then gave an internal sigh. There was no point wasting words. "Roanette ran off."

Quiet, Gramps looked in the same direction, so far as Leif could tell from the shadows cast over the ground. An aged hand reached out, plucking a grass stem before planting it between old, serviceable teeth. It took a full minute before his response was given. "That right?"

"Yah." This time it was Leif's turn to think. How much was told in confidence? As a liminal – or what a Spriggan was – Gramps probably knew more about the situation than even Agent Wesson. But Aredhel's urgings were somewhat personal.

Gramps stirred. "Thursday night. Carried you."

Leif nodded a slow tempo. Nothing needed to be said, it seemed.

Taking the grass stem out, Gramps tapped the leafy end against the side of the pickup. "Full moon making 'er jumpy?"

"I guess?" Leif spread his hands, helpless. "'Red thinks so."

An irritated exhalation met his statement. "Rumor. Tradition. Helps control."

"Really?" This was news. "Wesson seems convinced."

"Pah." A globule arced high over the grass blades, vanishing from sight. "Spriggan remember. Old story, too complicated."

Facts ambled through Leif's mind, coming to rest as he processed their presence. Universal truths were by nature, applicable to everything – but exceptions could be made on occasion. Without thought his knife came out, a partial carving already present in the other hand. Unlike the half-finished model at home, this was a simple work, a miniature copy of the barn. Once the main shape was roughed out, he'd work on the finer details. At the moment, it just served to keep hands busy as the mind worked. Frowning, his thoughts circled back.

"What's a spriggan?"

Gramps leaned back, staring at the sky, then forward again. "Us. Spriggan. We're … old. Male for the most part. Like Lamia. Ain't so obsessed with sex. We ain't that stupid."

An agreeing grunt seemed to satisfy the older man, enough that he continued. "Liminals are part human. Kids … usually liminal. Sometimes human. One outta twenty, mebbe. Dunno."

The spriggan cleared his throat. "Works a little different a'tween liminals, o' course." Wood shavings flicked into the air, caught by the wind and blown out of sight. "Aredhel … never really knew me."

Leif paused. "Sorry."

"Ain't your fault. Stubborn ma. Backwards family. Got thrown out."

There was more, Leif was certain, but it felt rude to press. His blade-tip etched a fine line, the beginnings of an eaves on the side of his model barn. "Red said something about you bein' a Maquis trainer?"

A faint twitch of the older man's mustache hinted at a smile. "Good times. Helped the Frenchies there. A few solid retreads from Wipers. Good men. Damn good men."

Leif's eyebrows furrowed as they did when the older man slipped into nostalgia. His vocabulary tended to include terms from another era. Explanations never seemed to be forthcoming.

"Fought in the War Between the States. Met Lincoln, one of the few folks that knew about monsters – pah. Liminals now. Think I got the picture somewhere. Great man." Gramps slid off the unmoving truck, landing in an easy crouch, then leaned back against the running board. "Spriggan need duty. Family. Purpose. We ain't many, but we last. Have a couple kids kickin' around. Get letters sometimes."

He knew that. The mail carrier liked to stop sometimes and gossip. Everyone believed the elderly rancher received mail from old comrades in other countries. But having children? That was news – it made sense in a way. Humans were only human, seeking companionship wherever they landed. Liminals, it seemed, were no different.

"Elves … big on tradition," Gramps almost bit off the sentence, scowling at the grass. "Social standing. Was almost glad Arty did a Charlie Foxtrot on their village. Served the Fuzzy Wuzzie's right. Ach. Good thing no dames present."

Leif agreed – although he wasn't sure if any woman could understand enough to be insulted.

Sighing, Gramps stood up again. Out in the distance his charges were moving, beginning their return. "Centaur culture is … different. Question is, are they here to teach, or learn? This is America. If they ain't gonna learn where it's safe, they'll die in the wild. Train hard. Fight easy."

Leif stood as well at the older man's departure; manners counted in an area where grudges could cost lives. More than that, the older man deserved the gesture, if nothing else. He raised a hand in farewell, thinking. Spending so much time in thought was nothing new. Having to spend so much time in thought over someone else's actions, though. That was new. He didn't think he liked it.

Coarse gravel pinged off the F-150's undercarriage. It ignored minor attacks, moving forwards like an unstoppable juggernaut. Serviceable tires spun under Leif's guidance, following the tracks made by the plethora of heavy equipment rolling through. Little rain had fallen since their arrival, rendering dusty clouds to rise in the tracks, drifting high in the near motionless air. Even from the moving cab, Leif could see the waving grass at rest, the constant breeze gone.

Frowning, he waited until after reaching a sort of large gravel parking lot before shutting down the old vehicle. Then he stared at the skyline.

Out along the distant mountains, visible he knew from near Montana's eastern border, he could see clouds and blue sky. Clouds overhead scudded past at rates he could easily see, but the ground-level atmosphere held no disturbance. Even licking a finger brought no sensation more than the chill temperature of a late Fall morning. A very still Fall morning.

Leif concentrated, closing his eyes and inhaling. Gravel dust was a predominant scent, accompanied by the sweet scent of silage. Cold earth, an odor that resembled damp clay and grass filled his nostrils. It was a smell he'd known his entire life. But there was a change, deep in the underlying strata. Something … different.

He inhaled again, a slower breath than before. "You smell that, Dunya?"

The Border collie's ears rose, alert eyes spinning across the plain. Her soft whine sounded of morbid agreement.

Leif tilted his head back, bringing the sun's cool rays under the brim of his hat. "Horses. Cattle. Diesel fuel, exhaust. Kinda sharp though."

His dog yipped once, short and reproving.

The frown deepened. "Yeah, overthinking it. What –" he took another deep breath. "Oh. Oh. Snow. Yeah, that … that could be bad."

Dunyazade sniffed agreement.

"A little early, but not o'er much." Leif studied the sky again, this time knowing what he sought. Now he recognized the faint hints of clouds building beyond the horizon, an almost invisible layer edging their bulbous tops into sight. Depending on how swift the wind blew, the clouds themselves would arrive before nightfall. How much snow depended upon many variables; his section of Montana typically got its weather from southwestern Canada, but mountains played havoc with little things like computers and whatever electronic toys meteorologists utilized.

Satisfied, he left the truck, pulling the cane out to rest on the gravel. Around him were other pickups, newer than his own and studded with decals professing affinity to construction centers across the state. Two were dedicated to a popular cellular service, and over a dozen seemed to declare an allegiance to concrete work. A dozen belonging to different installment professionals seemed to compete for proximity to a larger structure that resembled a massive barn to his untrained eye.

Frowning, he looked around. Everyone in eyesight seemed busy. No one paid attention to a crippled rancher in an ancient pickup. In truth he preferred that, but at the moment there was a matter to attend.

Letting out a sigh, he trudged forward. Gravel crunched underfoot until he reached pavement. There Leif had to circumnavigate construction workers, moving at near breakneck speeds. Some looked inhuman, like the cat people appearing around the ranch. Others were pure human, so far as he could tell.

"One side!" a lean, sleek centaur galloped past. He bore a leather messenger bag on his back, and a bright orange vest.

Recovering, Leif kept on. Buildings rose on either side of the pathway, wide enough to guarantee passage for small cars. While it wasn't a city-sized grouping, it had more structures than the nearest registered town – simple enough, given the aforemententioned nearest town had four official buildings. A barber-shop pole rose from one shopfront, matched by a classic pharmacy RX symbol across the path.

"'scuse me!" this time a young dryad, leaf-green hair and childlike features bounced past. He, the first male dryad Leif had seen, hopped into a doorway, slamming it shut behind.

Putting it aside, Leif made his way to the only multi-story building visible. At the end of the path it rose on three different levels, wooden pillars supporting an elaborate overhang. What looked like carved dragon heads extended from above each level, stylized in a simplistic, yet attractive method he'd love to copy in his carvings. Whatever treatment the locals had chosen for the shingles made them look golden, like dried straw from a distance. If he hadn't seen it up close, it would've put him in mind of thatched roofing. He could recognize Mr. Yidderman inside, through a long, open window.

Finally close enough to step up the low ramp, he found a long bench and a sign.

"Wait until called," he read aloud. Then he took in the comfortable-looking bench. "I can do that."

His leg twinged until levered at an angle. The bench provided more than enough room for that. It also provided an excellent view of the miniature town.

Less than two months before, the town site had been all fields and open prairie. Cattle once roamed the untouched hills, wandering down the short bluff to what was left of the oxbow lake. Although – if his eyes still held true, that was becoming a changed reality. The old water levels were higher than they'd ever been, and hadn't Wesson promised something about restoring ecological what-did-he-call-its?

Soft footsteps padded along the wooden walkway, hesitating just beside him. "Sir?"

Leif blinked. "Yah."

Slow, timid steps minced into his line of sight. Silvery-blonde hair brushed into sight, familiar if not expected. "Are you … angry?"

He checked his surroundings. Centaurs were everywhere, long ears reacting to the slightest sound. Given their distance, his being overheard on a normal basis was laughable. But Roanette had demonstrated hearing like a bat, and his human voice was so very distinct. Instead of answering he motioned, waving the elf towards the bench.

"Oh, no need to move sire," she hastened as he heaved his leg. "I will stand."

A sensation of annoyance mixed with chagrin bolted through Leif. "Thank'e, but you should be sittin'. Manners."

"Sir," she shook her head. "You are my superior. I understand your reluctance, but in order to ensure everyone's comfort, they must see you are not just worthy of respect, but are actually receiving respect."

This time annoyance shot though his system in an inimitable surge. Should he, or shouldn't he?

"Red. Sit."

Fractions of a second later her denim-clad buttocks hit the bench. Wide eyes focused. "Yessir."

A tired groan fought to escape, but he manfully shut it down. "This is America. You came to my ranch, to learn how to work in America. Well, I'm tellin' ya how to do it. First: no royalty. We ain't had kings and dukes and what have you in over two hundred years; I'll be hanged if I'm the first to break that tradition."

Her head nodded as if attached on a pivot. "No Royalty, sir."

"Second," he gave her a serious look. "No slaves. Over half a million men died to quit that."

"No slaves," she repeated.

"Last one. We don't hold with human breedstock, arranged marriages, or what have you. If'n you wanna, that's your business. But it's frowned on by most folks in the good ol' Yew Ess of Ay. Clear?"

The elf hesitated. "Do you mean you will not condone arranged partnerships, or contracts arranged by parents for their children's marital futures?"

"I mean," by accident he slipped into the tones he tended to keep for recalcitrant bulls. Cattle responded to lower voices, calm and certain. "No means no. If a woman says no, that's it. If a man says no, that's final. No means no."

To his surprise the woman nodded in frantic agreement. "Yes milord, as you command."

Leif hesitated, reviewing the last few seconds. The thought slid away from his grasp. Something about traditions? No; it would return if important. But at least this seemed to resolve an ongoing problem. Perhaps life could return to normal once again, a more normal normal, instead of whatever insanity was passing for normal these days.

He should've known better than to tempt fate like that.

"You talk big for a little man." Heavy hoofbeats crunched on the gravel sidewalk.

Leif ignored the interruption. This was the most he'd talked in a single conversation in quite some time – but it felt important. "You got questions, talk to me. Alright?"

"Yes milord," the elf flowed to her feet, bowing. "Your directives will be obeyed."

A heavy snort tried to make itself known. "Lord? That runt?"

"Red," Again he ignored the interruption. "Last thing. Bad weather comin'. Your folk ready? Dryads under cover?"

"Bad weather?" she cocked her head to one side. "The forecasters predict a low probability of fog, but nothing else."

Leif looked up at the sky again, taking off his hat. Cool air tugged at his forelock, chilling the sweat-slicked strands. Now that he focused, he could see faint ridges of ice on the banks of the lake, during the warmest portion of the day. More than that, a chill in the air stabbed at his sinuses. Familiarity enveloped his recognition at each inhalation, breathing promises.

"Yeah. Snow. Maybe wind," it was a relief to know his blizzard kit remained intact, close at hand in the pickup. "Don't know how much. Glad the cattle are under cover. It feels … cold."

Annoying, hoarse laughter broke out. "The little man thinks it's cold? He needs to spend less time sitting inside and more time building some muscles."

Leif ignored that too. Sometimes the smallest minds rested in the largest bodies. This had to be a centaur. For a minute he considered what needed to be done next; why he'd come to what was once free range. The thought responded with gratifying swiftness.

"Need to see the, ah, Chiron?" he chewed over the word. "Caleb. Him."

"Of course," Aredhel agreed. "I will see if he is available."

A large hand seized the back of Leif's shirt, hauling him off the ground. He was rotated to see a confusing conglomeration of horse and human, in Spandex of all things. "You dare to disturb Father at these propat – dilemmen – uh … times? He must focus on what is important, not the bleating of small men."

The door creaked open and another voice, deeper and older, interposed, coming from the large frame of the centaur he sought. "For this man I will do so my son. Please, put the Lord of the Land down before he hurts you."

The hand let go, dropping him back to the bench. A quiet grunt escaped when his injured leg rammed into the bench. Aredhel was at his side in an instant, a look of fury on her face. "You dropped him! You could have injured him, again!"

From the new angle Leif could see the new centaur, a being whose human portion resembled that of a professional body builder, exposed to the world in one of the snuggest shirts he'd ever seen. Muscles bulged at every gesture, flexing at opportune moments. Supporting the muscled torso was an equine half of equal proportions; akin to a Clydesdale. Four sturdy legs with hoofs the size of dinner plates lifted and fell with surprising agility for something that seemed to weigh over a quarter ton. Capping off the ensemble was a head where, for the first time he recalled, relation to the father could be seen. It had the same high forehead, and similar nose arrangement. The ears were visible too, tapering into points like all the other centaurs Leif had seen, but with the higher fore-edge observed on Mister Yidderman's head thus far.

"If he's hurt that easy –" the younger centaur began, but his elder cut him off.

"Philip," his voice went low. "Size does not mean harmless. You know this."

The younger individual lowered his head, a mulish expression on his face. "Yes sir."

"Good." The word's meaning and the voice in which it was spoken were in complete opposition. But the elder turned back to face Leif. "I confess I did not expect you, Lord Larsen."

Pursing his lips, Leif gave the second liminal he'd ever met a remonstrating look, but let the term go. "Gotta minute?"

"For you? Of course. Please, come inside." Yidderman backed into the doorway once more, French doors that rose in a graceful arc half-again above Leif's height. Wooden flooring provided a flexible base for Leif's boots, but stood more firm than simple boards could provide.

Once inside, the centaur led Leif and the two others down the building's length. Windows were visible along each wall, a full forty feet apart. Large couch-like constructs were scattered across the floor, thick rugs insulating the ground yet further, and two large fire pits made of ceramics held positions of honor on either side.

Leif nodded approval. "Fire'll be handy soon."

"Indeed?" Yidderman commented from in front. "I heard what you told Representative Lithlinede. My people will prepare themselves for the evening."

"Good." There wasn't much to say about it.

"Just a moment more, ah." Yidderman ushered them into a large room sequestered at one end of the building. It spread across the entire structure's bottom floor, sparse decorations highlighting the vast space. Several paintings hung on the wall, featuring grasslands and ancient forests, sometimes in the same frame. One oversized cuckoo clock held a place of honor on the wall opposite the desk, a construct appearing to have been made out of an entire stump, containing a tamed eagle perhaps.

"Welcome to my office. I had hoped to welcome your first visit with more pomp and celebration, but this is not such a time, I take? You have refrained from visiting Havre before now. What is the problem?"

Leif avoided looking out the window, at the rows of buildings where tall waving grass had grown. "Roanette's gone off the reservation."

The eldest Yidderman looked puzzled. "I'm sorry, I do not –"

"Ran off." Leif clarified. "We – talked."

"Oh." A dark look entered the male centaur's eyes. "May I ask what the subject of your talk entailed?"

Hesitant, Leif considered refusing to speak. But Caleb was Roanette's father. Who else had a greater right to know?

"She explained 'bout riding her. I didn't know. Bit 'o a shock."

Caleb's hand rose, stroking his beard, deep in thought. "You refused, then."

"Didn't get that far." Leif looked him straight in the eye. "She left. Then I heard about things I don't rightly like the sound of."

"Go on."

"Breeding stock. Arranged marriages. Situations where folks can't say no. Can't say I like that at all." Leif's steady look wavered a hairsbreadth from turning into anger, but steadied into something almost melancholy. "Not here. Not in America."

A sudden breath caught his attention. The larger, younger centaur was staring at him. He gave the youth a questioning look.

"Do you … truly mean that?" Philips tone contained a strange intensity. "Would you hold non-humans to the same cultural standards you do of your own people?"

"That's … right." Leif grew wary.

"Philip!" Caleb's fist pounded on his desk, sending a paperweight over the edge. The two centaurs shared a long look, exchanging information that even Leif could detect. Small twitches communicated … something, he couldn't tell what. But the way Philip's tail swished in response hinted at deeper things.

Heartbeats later, Caleb sighed, looking down. His large head gave a single slow nod, while Philip's back slumped in relief.

"Forgive my son," Caleb swallowed, then looked up. "He plays a difficult role."

Leif eyed the pair. "Aye …?"

This time Philip bowed his head. "I must apologize for my rude words. Due to my position, I am expected to be the strongest and most combative. Manners to unproven strangers suggests weakness."

"With that perception," Caleb added. "Philip has assisted my control over the … less tractable members of our people. This is part of the reason I advocated the centaurs join the Initiative."

A mild disoriented sensation flitted through Leif. When would life return to normal? Could it achieve even a newer sense of normality? But this explained their meeting earlier. "Testing me."

"Guilty as charged," one large shoulder rose and fell. "But returning to my point, do you intend to oppose Liminal cultural practices?"

Leif gave him another look, this time the version saved for slow dogs and bumbling visitors. "You folks came for a safe spot. To learn. Well, I'm teachin'."

"Some of our … impetuous members might challenge you."

Incredulity made an appearance on Leif's expression. He looked down at the cowboy boots on his feet, then at the hardened calluses on both hands. "Horses. Me. Problem?"

"Some are blooded warriors," Caleb warned, a deep calm in his voice. "Our lives have not always been so idyllic. To those whom have suffered, enmity stands deep in their hearts."

"Then what're they doin' here?" Leif shot back. "'Sides. Y'all aren't horses. Makes it easier."

Philip flexed his musculature again, annoyance flickering across his countenance. "How does that make things easier for you?"

A slow answering grin spread across Leif's face. "Horses got instinct. Don't hesitate. People stop and think."

"But," Philip objected. "That's why we train. So we do not hesitate."

Another shrug lifted his shoulders. "Even better. Hits harder when trainin' don't help."

An exasperated grunt punctuated their discussion, aided by a glare from Aredhel. "In case we have forgotten our purpose here, Ms. Roanette is missing. Are we looking for her?"

Leif leaned back where he stood, folding both hands atop his cane. "Yah. But big picture's important. What's the centaur take on it?"

The elder centaur stroked his beard thoughtfully. "In truth, this will aid my people more than I'd hoped. I confess, my initial plan involved arranging three of my daughters to align themselves with Mr. Larsen; at the very least the improved genetic potential could have gone far to save my race. Should you be amenable, two dozen centaurides would be willing to have him sire their young."

He did not squirm under Leif's accusing gaze. "I apologize for not telling you everything at our earlier meetings. However I do not regret withholding information vital to my race's existence."

One of Leif's eyebrows rose. "Me."

"You indeed," Caleb smiled. "You. While centaur males are by no means so brutish as legend portrays, we have our issues. By incorporating the contributions of outside genetic influences, I am hoping to alter my race's descent into an even more primitive state."

Leif's other eyebrow joined the first, delivering an incredulous expression. "You want me to be breeding stock?"

"If you were willing, of course." Caleb spread a hand wide. "It was an idea, nothing more. I did not pursue the notion beyond the planning stage, and have not encouraged my daughters to follow suit any further than they have. Fortunate, as it has turned out. My eldest seems smitten with your neighbor, and you are seemingly uninterested in carnal relations at all. A pity – your genes would go far to dampen the brutishness my people often display."

Rage, mixed with resignation warred for dominance. Leif considered his options – in truth, nothing had occurred. But the intent behind actions could be seen now, in hindsight. Caleb's utter willingness to send his daughter with him alone, out of sight. The encouragement received by multiple entities to maintain a healthy relationship. It made his blood boil to just think about it. But in the end, nothing had happened.

"I take you are uninterested in a polyamorous arrangement?" Caleb inquired.

Leif blinked. "What?"

"He means," Aredhel snapped. "Do you want a harem or not?"

"What? No!" Leif took a step backward. "You ever see the Chinese symbol for trouble? Two women under one roof."

Aredhel folded her arms, looking unhappy. "If people act with consent, and mature behavior –"

"Tell that to Raymond," Leif retorted. "Died five years ago I think? Had a place 'bout quarter hour drive East of here. Had three or four girlfriends. Thought he was so smart. Didn't need to listen to common sense."

Philip flicked an ear at him. "What happened?"

"House burned down, no survivors." Leif checked the sky again. "Don't know who started it. But yeh could hear the yellin' every night for a couple years before it happened. Can still see the foundations if you drive out there."

"Elves practice polygamy," Aredhel noted. "We have managed to succeed."

"Yeah. How's your dad feel about that? Y'know, the fella out on his own, yelling at folks?" Leif held her gaze until her eyes dropped. "That's what I thought."

Philip cleared his throat. Huge muscles flexed as both arms folded before his chest. "Interesting as this is, I believe we are straying from the point. Summarized, I believe we can acknowledge the harem plan as defunct, our cultural introduction to America upgraded to what I can only term a 'crash course', and a centauride – my sister – under the influences of strong hormonal flux roaming in an area filled with potential issues."

"You are right, of course," Caleb groaned. "I suggest that the easiest problem be solved first. Where do you think Roanette went?"

"The orchard?" Aredhel suggested.

Leif withdrew as locations began flying around the room. He had an inkling where the centauride might've gone, but it would take a while to drive there on low-maintenance roads. Plus bad weather moved across the Plains faster than most would believe. Throw in the mountains to muddle the patterns, and it was always better to move sooner rather than later.

His cane tapped a quick rhythm as he hustled back. The truck waited where he'd left it, protected by a cat-eared individual he was certain had remained at the ranch. Without a word the feline humanoid gave Leif a short bow before leaping to the ground, vanishing into the centaur's mini-town.

Leif's keys popped open the pickup door, his injury making the transition from standing outside to sitting inside a minor pain.

A hand took the cane from him as he sat, hanging onto it while he slammed the driver's side shut. It took until the V-8 diesel engine rolled over for Leif to realize what happened, and look up to find Aredhel's blazing eyes daring him to protest.

"I know you are self-sufficient," she settled herself next to Dunyazade, who rested half her bulk in the elf's lap. "But you yourself said bad weather is coming. Plus, you are injured. It is my job to help look after you."

Leif spared another minute to look at her, then jammed his hat lower. "Hang on, then. Gonna be a bumpy ride."

[break]

Driving over low-maintenance roads was rough at the best of times. Infrequent, heavy vehicles dug ruts in the topsoil, tracts of bared earth baked hard by the summer sun while wind and rain wiped it clean of ambitious seeds. In the past, the route once carried wagons, before then bison had wandered its length. But now it was a pickup from a different century, engine rumbling defiance against the rising wind.

Specks of moisture slapped the windshield, faint dots freckling its transparent surface. A strong gust made the vehicle shudder, bending treetops, near doubling them in some cases.

"What is going on?" Aredhel hung onto the Border collie now firmly ensconced in her lap. "We had rain predicted! Fog!"

Leif cast an anxious look at the northwest. Towering clouds rose over the mountaintops, dark and heavy. "Blizzard. Temp's dropping, fast."

"Blizzard?" the elf gasped. "In November?"

The truck's suspension jounced over a boulder's extrusion into the road. The wind increased from strong to a howling blast.

"We need to get back to the house!" she shouted over the wind. "Lady Roanette will go there!"

"Can't." Leif's quieter voice was hard to hear. "Cattle. Gotta check."

"What?" Aredhel's incredulity pierced the oncoming storm. "I have read about your blizzards, they can last for days! Subzero temperatures, unstopping wind!"

"Yep," Leif slewed the truck around a bend, coming up to the twisting section. "You got it."

Her protests went unheeded as they skidded to a halt near The Place. It was an older home, built in a different time, when Sears had sold kit homes through catalogues and railways delivered them to the nearest depot. Leif jumped out of the running truck, ignoring the cane. He ran to the door, popping open the storm door, the wind fighting its movement. The main door almost exploded inwards by contrast, swinging too only after Aredhel ducked inside, closing the storm door behind her.

Leif was already elbow deep in a closet, pulling out heavy clothing. "Here."

The elf took a mass of fabric from his hands, a parka that would not have been out of place on the Amundsen expedition. "What is this?"

"Parka." Leif was pulling on another heavy coat, zipping the front shut and jamming a shapeless woolen thing over his head. A string tied under the chin completed the impression of a refugee from some second-hand knitting shop for amateurs. "Hat too. Hurry."

Taking the proffered garb, she pulled it onto her own head, cinching its knot tight. Heavy gloves, leather mittens over more wool fingered elements, gave elvish dexterity a look and a laugh. "You have over a hundred cows out there, do you not? You can't hope to –"

"Hired help." Leif shoved his own gloves on. "Just gotta check. Come on."

The elf winced as they returned to the outdoors; in the few minutes they'd spent inside, the temperature had dropped. A hard wind had become dagger-laden, sending lines of impervious knives past her face. Bending into the wind, she scrambled into the truck, pausing only long enough so that his door shut before hers opened.

Before it closed the truck was moving, jolting over uneven terrain. Long minutes passed, tiny flakes too small to see beginning their obscuring dance. A pine stand less than half a mile away grew hard to see, a shapeless dark blob in the distance that grew less visible by the minute. One did not appreciate how short such a measurement was, until it made a personal difference.

"Who is working there?" Ahead, long, low sheds came into sight, squat and strong against the strengthening wind. Already white lines were building along ridges, collecting snow.

"I hired the Nelsons," Leif had to shout over the wind. "Good boys. Smart."

Cattle stood, huddled under shelter. Well-fed cows could generate a great deal of heat, and a herd of them were more than capable of withstanding a snowstorm. Leif couldn't begin to remember the number of times he'd come out to see a vast snowdrift shudder, then turn into a row of cud-chewing cattle, content in thick fur and their internal furnaces. But there were a few barns available, blocking the worst of the wind, providing shelter; well-ventilated structures providing enough shelter to be comfortable.

The F-150 punched through an open strip, cattle barrier rattling beneath its tires. A smaller building, cinderblock walls cemented against the weather, was his destination. He could see movement behind thick-pane glass windows, followed soon by the home-made door pop open.

Leif guided the vehicle to a stop, and hopped out, landing on his good leg. He cast a firm look at Aredhel. "Stay in the truck."

"But –"

"Stay." Leif's tone brooked no argument. He reinforced the statement with a glare, and slammed the door shut.

After ten minutes he reappeared, two red-headed figures shouting advice inaudible through the wind. Leif exited, returning to the pickup and climbing inside. Ten minutes wait had not been long, but the air had gotten cold enough to generate frost on the back windshield. Wherever one of them had breathed on the windows, delicate lines of ice looped and whorled their way into existence.

"Getting' colder." Leif pulled off the leather mittens, holding the more flexible portion over the air vents.

Silence met his words.

He looked up, catching the elf looking away with a huff. Leif blinked, puzzled, but let it alone. Reversing course, the truck crunched through drifts a half-inch tall, growing and falling under the unpredictable wind. Through the windshield, bursts of dry snow could be seen blown across the ground. By now the temperature had to be well below freezing, into the negatives if he was any judge. Not the fastest temperature drop in recent history, but respectable nonetheless.

A chilling sensation kept his attention on the road; even behind closed metal doors tiny bits of snow could be seen, lining the interior floorboards. Every new gust drove a little more inside, stabbing at the warmer air in jealous rage. His leg hurt, no ached in the cold. Hopefully it would heal soon.

The truck climbed against the wind, pushing upwards. Leif stopped at the highpoint, getting a good look at the countryside.

By now the pine trees were invisible. Swirling gusts hammered at his F-150, rocking its suspension from side to side. Blue sky, visible only an hour prior, seemed to no longer exist. Dark gray overcast clouds flew at dangerous, low altitudes, lower edges curling in shapes reminiscent of waves. Lower, Leif could see less than fifty yards. He understood where the home place was, but the road was now covered in a layer of snow, blending with the untended grasslands.

"Took too long," he muttered. A shiver prompted him to pull the parka closer, checking the liner. "Came in too fast."

The faint sound of a telephone broke the storm-enforced silence. He looked over to see the elf push Dunyazade a bit further forwards, reaching into her coat to withdraw a chunky-looking cell phone. "Representative Lithilinde. Hello? Hello …? Oh. Yes, he's here. We're out by The Place – yes. You found her? Goo – repeat that please? Hello?"

He started driving again. The longer they waited, the worse the storm grew.

'Not a storm. Blizzard.'

Down below, Dunyazade whined agreement.

Leif shared a short look with the Border collie's caramel-colored eyes. 'Going to have to hunker down.'

There was no other choice, really. An old-fashioned Montana blizzard could freeze a man stark-stiff twenty paces from his house. Once the wind worked itself into full frenzy no one could determine direction an arms length from their front door, and only the most foolhardy would even attempt it. It wasn't December though, which meant the temperature wouldn't drop that far – although throwing liquid water and watching ice fall might be an entertaining proposition. Even if it could take place in the sheltered entry of the house.

"That was Wesson," Aredhel interrupted his thoughts. "Roanette is back at the house, worried about you. I told them we were fine for now."

He shrugged, motion invisible under his thick layers. "We'll stay at The Place until things calm down. Safe there."

She nodded, punching digits into her phone once again. "Very good."

By the time they'd reached the old farmstead, the howling wind had grown to a scream. Were he of the superstitious bent, Leif would've believed voices were moaning terror from the skies. It was a bone-chilling sound,

Dunyazade shivered in Aredhel's lap, whimpering. She placed a calming hand on the canine's head, quieting its fearful utterings.

"Almost there, girl." Leif made an educated guess, turning out of the main path through a back route. Memory served well, bringing the two-story house into dim view through a clouded screen.

"Are you speaking to me, or the dog this time?" Aredhel snapped.

Leif spared a grunt, but said nothing.

Long minutes later, even this close Leif refused to travel faster than the utter minimum, they stopped. For a moment the two sat in silence, listening to the fierce wind. By now the blizzard was past white-out conditions, the trees were invisible despite existing less than a dozen yards from the truck. Faint sprays of the crystalline flakes cooled Leif's cheek, still being driven through the cracks too small for the naked eye.

"Waelp," he paused as another blast sent the pickup rocking. "Door's unlocked. Make yourself at home."

The elf moved, pulling up her hood and laying a hand on the door, then paused. "Aren't you coming in?"

Leif shifted. "Well, not tonight. Got my kit out here," his hand patted a robust looking container tucked away. "Figured I'd drive into the Quonset. Warm enough there."

Aredhel's stare battled with the arctic atmosphere for dominance. "In a blizzard. Sub-zero temperatures. After all the things you know you're responsible for, you want to pull the Nobility card now?"

"I'm not going to try sleepin' in a tent," Leif protested. "A mite cold for that."

"'A mite cold for that …'" the elf repeated. The look on her face changed from irritated to determined. Her mittened hand darted forward, snagging his elbow in an unbreakable grip. "Lord Larsen. You are not going to shame me before my ancestors. You will suffer the indignity of my company or I will send you to them myself!"

"But –" Leif managed to get the first part of the protest out, but utterly failed to express the rest as the elf dragged him out of the vehicle, leaving just enough time to pull the keys out. It was a realization that came somewhat too late in his way of thinking, but liminals had a habit of strong-arming their own way. At least they were safe, who knew how long the storm would last. Perhaps he'd better check on the generator. And the backup firewood. And the kerosene lamps. A rancher's work was never done.

A/N: I have deleted and re-posted this chapter, given the errors and issues here on FFN. I also have a backup account at Archive of Our Own, under Chuck_Johannsen. Look for Monster Ranch 2 there, and you'll find most of my other works present as well, plus my (very unique) fanfic on Richard Struggle: Enter the Masquerade. Best of luck all!