Anticipating a refreshing night's sleep in one's own bed was a glorious sensation. Doing so without the screaming wind made it even better – stronger men than he had gone mad from such things. A pleasant evening alone with his books, a warm blaze in the fireplace sounded like heaven to his tired mind.
'On the other hand,' he glanced across the room to where Fanchon applied elbow grease and enthusiasm to removing dust above the antelope heads, set over six feet high on the wall. Her personal requirement for frilly clothing did nothing to help keep dust at bay, or much of anything for that matter. 'Some went mad from loneliness. Guess that's not gonna be a thing here. Guess it's too late for me.'
"Milord," rubber-shod hooves made dull thumping noises on the floor behind Leif. "A word, if you will?"
"Hmm?" he started a little at the sudden presence. "Sure."
Roanette fidgeted. "Perhaps … elsewhere? The barn?"
"Yeah." A faint hissing noise of disapproval emanated from above somewhere. Leif ignored both it, and the faint shower of dust drifting into sight.
The outdoors was cold, but not frozen. Leif was glad for his heavy jacket, although curious about the extra lining that had somehow been patched over the thin portions of its interior. The cross-stitch wasn't of his normal techniques, although beautiful in its own way. The fabric was soft as well, smoother than leather or the nylon stuff left over from that waterproof coat.
Shrugging away the question, Leif wandered outside, picking up his hat from the stand and the accompanying cane. His pain from earlier that morning was leaving, although not quite gone. A pill would solve the matter, but not until just before he slept – best to not risk addiction, no matter how minimal the potential.
The barn looked imposing against the gloomy sky, white powder ground into its weatherworn boards, graying with the passage of time while still retaining a ruddy hue from uncounted coats of paint. A brisk wind sent dust and droplets of melting snow in loose arcs beyond its asphalt tiled roof, chilling to the unprepared. But its inhabitants were more than capable of keeping themselves warm, even in the sub-arctic temperatures Montana was capable of achieving.
Leif heaved on the covering barn door, pulling it back enough so the metal gate's bars behind were accessible, and pushed them aside as well. After a moment's thought he pulled both wider, for the centauride's broader frame.
"So." He waited until she'd entered, then took a few steps deeper into the comforting shadows. Half a dozen horses whickered greetings, ears pricking forwards. "What can I do you for?"
A brief hesitation showed in Roanette's stride, caused by what he didn't know. "Sir. Milo – Leif. You … spoke to my father. Before you … searched. For me."
"Aye," Leif limped to the nearest pen, greeting the equine inhabitant with a caressing stroke along the soft muzzle. The dark-colored horse shoved his hand hard, making a playful nudge before demanding further attention to the jaw's underside. "Mister Yidderman. Yah?"
Her head lowered. "Then you … know."
He kept his gaze steady. "That your da' wanted me to stud for a new generation of centaurs? Odd. Yah."
For long heartbeats, the sable-haired centauride silently examined the ground under her feet. It was uncharacteristic of the woman's effusive nature, telling in its own way.
Leif leaned against a post. His cane thunked against the wall, where it rested. "Ro', I'm right flattered. Honest and true. But I ain't comfortable with … studding myself out. But we're partners, sure. I ain't goin' back on that."
Her eyes didn't leave the floor, joined by her drooping ears in the investigation of the barn's supporting framework. One hoof pawed at the floor, further evidence of nervousness; in Leif's experience, horses would only grow more nervous or less after starting the ground-defacement. Here it suggested a similar condition exacerbated by intelligence, one that had preceded her earlier departure. Nerves, plus high expectations of … either himself or herself? Leif was uncertain. From what behavior she'd exhibited, it was almost certain to be a case of self-blame, which he couldn't help.
Patient, Leif waited, making his way over to the next horse whom watched his ministrations with no small amount of jealousy. Patches, further down the row, snorted an impatient demand for attention. Leif smiled but made sure to give the massive gelding before him the full measure; fair was fair after all.
"What … breed is he?" a quiet voice asked behind his back.
Leif swayed as the large head shook, throwing its mane around. "Dunno. Bit of a mutt. We named him Mongrel. Bit o' Percheron in there. Maybe Clydesdale. Got 'im as a yearling – thought he was older than that. Owner –" he shook his head in disapproval. "Former owner thought so too. Gelded him. Pity. Woulda had good foals."
He caught the jerky nodding of the centauride out of the corner of one eye. Then he reviewed the last few seconds, and winced. 'Silence is golden. Don't forget it.'
Moving over to Patches he rubbed the affectionate horse's dark mane. "How about you girl. Want a good rubdown?"
"Yes." The word reached his ears the same time as Patches's head-wobble shake of agreement.
Leif felt a corner of his mouth lift as an embarrassed gasp followed a moment later. He felt an urge to tease the nervous woman, but thought better of it. Given the circumstances, there'd likely be a misunderstanding involving some insane requirement for vassals in the tenth century. Instead, he resigned himself to a stoic grunt.
Patches seemed to agree. A soft nudge from the dark horse's nose prodded him towards the curry-comb. He smiled. Sometimes that horse was too smart for her own good.
"That is … if you would not mind …." A soft voice continued after his lack of response.
Before he could think of an answer, the crunch of tires on gravel interrupted. Gratitude overwhelmed his heart before logic dug in its claws.
Leif frowned. No one was expected that day. Maybe a neighbor was stopping by …? But then there would be some trouble, possibly. No one was supposed to know about the whole Liminal setup, but it wouldn't be surprising in the least if multiple neighbors already knew.
"Liminals?" he asked. If she was to be a full partner, then her input would need to be consulted.
Roanette pursed her lips, and hook her head. Sable hear lashed across her shoulders. "No one is scheduled for today. A new herd is arriving tomorrow, but they will be landing a few dozen members."
The sound of crunching gravel shuddered into the barn's open windows, lighter than a grain truck, a heavy sedan or light suburban utility vehicle. An engine went into idling, and creaking of car door sounded, then slammed. Faint crunches from booted feet became audible, then faded from hearing.
"Stay here," Leif gave Patches an apologetic rub. "Probably nothing."
Roanette backed away from the main door, eyes wide. The foreign-make carbine in her hands – where had that come from? – appeared small, but he knew it was just an illusion. "Sire."
"Don't need to cover me," a stray thought crossed his mind. Of centaurs chasing down a vehicle and passengers shooting at the monsters outside. An abrupt change of heart knocked sense back into his brain. "Wait. Yeah. If it goes pear shaped, I'm runnin' here. Kay?"
A steady gaze met his own, no sign of apprehension evident. Roanette checked the safety on her weapon, working the lever-action just enough to see the brass casing resting inside. "You are safe with me, sire."
"Leif. Just Leif. Or Larsen if you have to," he grumbled. After this long the irritation was still strong, but this was no time for such a battle.
He took a moment to stretch, finding his balance. The cane helped, lending stability through its physical presence, and the connection he could almost feel to the original wielder. Grandpa Larsen had been a tall man with large hands – the cane's worn sections carried that familiarity. It was as if the old maple wood were a conduit to the past, with his grandfather reaching back to clasp the hand clutching the handle.
A voice bellowed from outside. "Larsen!"
Roanette sashayed to one side, carbine poised as dogs began barking. She lowered the muzzle as Leif gestured, stepping back to let him exit. A murmured good luck ghosted to his ears on warm air, then evaporated.
Leif strode out of the barn, pausing to shut the wooden door – but not quite all the way – leaving the metal bars well open behind the wooden covering, just in case. Then he focused on the drive.
A beat-up old Chevrolet pickup sat near the front of the ranch house. Its once-blue sides had faded under dust and time to a rusted gray, breaking down to where actual rust flaked away above the wheel wells. But the windshields were in good condition, and he could tell by the rumbling engine that the owner took good care of what rested under the hood. It had the sound of well-oiled machinery, humming in perfect harmony.
"Larsen!" the hoarse bellow of an older man made its presence known again.
"Olsen." Leif barked in return, loud enough to be heard over the truck's rumble.
The older man's head snapped up to glare. He was indeed much older than Leif, as the white hair with faint hints of brown around the temples testified. While not fat, the older man could not be described as thin either. At best he was heavyset, given a definite paunch and calloused hands. A long mustache drooped over his upper lip, as aged as the rest of his hoary head.
"Larsen." The man wasted no time. "Where's Hilda?"
"Brunhilda?" Leif stopped within speaking distance. "She missin'?"
The old man's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. Funny things goin' on around here. Shootin' in the night when good folks should be sleepin', all that heavy construction. I can see that city you got going up from the hills. I know your folks ain't here no more, but they'd be ashamed if they knew you was doing this tomfoolery."
Leif took no offense. He'd long known the older man's habits.
"Then my baby girl's gone missin', I knew where to look first." The stone gray eyes glared again. "So tell me Larsen. Where's Hilda."
"Don't right know," he relaxed. "Last I saw she was with some guys I didn't much like the look of."
The older man's eyes turned murderous. "Where."
Leif jerked his thumb over the distant plains. "Yonder Zakapenko's old place. Got picked up by the cops, I reckon."
Olsen's face settled from grim to an expression bulldogs across the globe would've devoted half their lifespans to emulate. "What. The. Heck."
Planting the cane firmly in front, leaning both hands on its polished wood, Leif refused to back down. "Yeah. Same place I got shot. The stick ain't just fashion."
Silence grew between the two, an entire conversation communicated through body language. Tiny motions from Olsen's eyes flicked between the cane and Leif's posture, checking for truth. A good cattleman understood; bovines disguised injuries as a matter of course, an ancestry that survived by appearing healthy even if not. His eyes darted to the footprints left in the soft dust, noting the shorter stride and circular impact point from the cane, then back to how Leif leaned his weight on the cane.
Leif let the other man examine him, lifting one shoulder in an expression of weary impotence. 'Let 'im look. Nothin' I can do about it.'
"Don't care." Olsen decided. "Just have 'em send Hilda out and I'll go."
Leif gave a slow shake. "No can do. Got caught runnin' people."
The older man stopped dead – he was too much of an experienced horse trader to betray anything, but the pause was enough of a warning.
"Traffickin'?" the voice was casual, a study of mild concern and paternal interest. "What she getting' mixed up in now."
Leif shifted the cane to another position, leaning as little of his weight as possible. "You know what. Walk away, Olsen. I'm givin' you one chance to walk away."
Indecision wound its way across the man's face. Anger, mixed with what could very well have been worry. It was like tectonic shifts, a settling of opinion between multiple possible angles.
'Can't trust an Olsen. Jim's serving time down in Texas. Abigail's eating Jell-O through a straw for the past two years. Mrs. Olsen didn't do squat when the doc ….' Leif pushed the thought away. Some things didn't bear repeating, even in thought. Out of curiosity he eyed the older man's bulky coat. It held too much mass and patches to show any lethal secrets.
"Boy." Olsen's figure moved closer, into Leif's personal space. His expression mirrored the action, glowering anger. Even his voice dipped into gravel-filled realms. "You git my daughter and get her fast."
With a shrug, Leif headed for the house. "Can't say I didn't warn you. Come on."
The older man kept on his heels, crowding him until two black-and-white forms appeared, ears back and teeth bared. Dogs well-trained for herding animals ten times their own mass thought little of a puny bipedal figure with blunt teeth and no claws. Somehow, that attitude penetrated even an unthinking man's hindbrain, giving Leif a little more room.
The ranch house back door creaked open. Stepping in first, Leif cast a quick glance around. Neither neko nor elves were in sight. Relieving in one way, concerning in another. For now he ignored it, and stumped to the side of the entry. Stairs lead down into the depths, rough-hewn cinderblocks providing the far wall as solid as the day they'd been laid. There was no bannister, no handrail. When the place had been built there'd been thoughts in that line, but no one had ever actually done it.
"Your daughter, Brunhilda?" he pitched his voice a little louder than normal, making a snap judgement. "The one driving that trailer?"
The older man pushed past, standing parallel next to the stairs. Deep in the cellar light was visible, casting shadows on the stairs; strangely moving shadows. "Don't know what that girl was doin'. Don't care either. I know my rights."
"Yah." Leif's eyes rose, looking through the entry door to spot an old rifle hanging on a plaque over the fireplace. "Caught her trespassin on my land. Smuggling people, Olsen. People. Might look off a bit, but that don't matter none. You know why she's caught."
"She'll answer t'the law," Olsen grunted. His foot set down on the first step. "But you know what'll happen. They ain't human. No court'll try anyone ifn' it happened before the whole thing went public. Least of all a girl caught up with a bad crowd."
Leif nodded at the darkness below, reaching over to flip the closest in a bank of switches. A dim illumination burned to life, one of the newer fluorescent lights that saved power and generated little heat yet took forever to reach full potency. "You'll find what you're looking for down there then."
Living in the rural areas raised few fools. Olsen took a step back. "Why don't you go get her then?"
"Yeah?" Leif rapped his cane against the floor. "Ain't feelin' too quick these days. Or charitable."
Another growl and suspicious glare later, and the older man thudded down the stairs. Footsteps on a loose board, then on solid stone and concrete. Then noises began to change, sliding leather on smooth-packed ground, and the delighted sound of a predator spotting her prey.
"Larsen you bastard! –"
Taking an almost ostentatious care of his injured leg, the rancher made his way up the single step from the entry into the kitchen proper. A particularly loud shriek made him wince. With gentleness evident, he eased the door barring the entry room from the rest of the house shut. One long crack wound through the tri-pane glass running through the top half of the door, proof of less care in the past. Muffled shouting made tinny echoes through the radiator vents along the floor. He ignored it.
Minutes later, Aredhel and the neko, Fanchon, found him in the living room, staring at the old rifle hanging on the wall. They waited several respectful heartbeats in vain.
Behind his back, the two exchanged looks. It was apparent some sort of struggle was ongoing, the newcomer making a discreet step back, while begging with large, limpid eyes. The elf's angular eyebrows narrowed, then lifted, one ear twitching in agitation.
The neko gave a tiny headshake, folding her arms. A silent groan of exasperation from her counterpart made the woman's cat-ears lift upwards, and a small grin peek out.
"Larsen?" Aredhel ventured at last.
"Mm?" he didn't move, eyes caressing the worn, deadly lines of the ancient weapon.
"Wesson is here. For Mister Olsen."
Leif took a breath. "Let 'im know the bastard's down in the cellar. If he can convince the snake ladies, he can have 'im."
"Sir." Aredhel departed immediately in a rush of tapping shoes.
Fanchon, however, stepped closer, waiting. Before her the rancher continued examining the old weapon, studying its scarred lines. She cleared her throat. "Monsieur?"
Another handful of heartbeats passed. "Yah."
"I was wondering about this, ah, weapon. It is … old. A trophy, perhaps?"
"Kinda." Leif traced the barrel's length with a hand brushing the box's surface. The barrel's end bent just a hair, a dent almost buffed out but still visible. Deep marks scored the stock, polished into the wood. "Great-great-uncle Elver's rifle. Springfield 1861. Fifty-eight cal, I reckon. Back in eighteen sixty two – sixty three."
The cat-woman's ears flicked towards the floor where outraged bellows became cries of pain, then merged into angry shouting once more. A somewhat more cultured voice joined the fray, quieting things for the moment. "It seems important, sir."
"Probably just me." Leif sighed, and moved away. "Great-Uncle Elver was a Union boy. Lost an arm and a leg at Vicksburg under General Grant. Awful proud o' that man, he was."
The rancher kept moving until in the kitchen once more. He gave a final glance back at the rifle then down at the entry, where Wesson and a few humans were dragging the older man, looking worse for the wear. A grim smile crossed Leif's face, a light of unholy glee dancing where the neko could not see. "Family thing. Never did like slavers."
After a time, Wesson came back, nodding a greeting to Roanette as she departed. His normally dapper appearance was disheveled, perfect shoes scuffed with what looked like a large bootprint on one, and what could've passed for tire treads on the other. He collapsed on a large rocking chair, falling limp as his thin frame hit the cushions.
"Rough day?" Leif rose, intending to offer his guest hospitality. The neko darted past, already placing a tall glass of water next to the government man's hand.
"You could say that," Wesson seized the water glass, gulping at its contents. He stopped after two thirds, and leveled a glare. "You tossed him to the lamia. Deliberately."
Leif's eyebrows rose. "Did I? Well, paint me red and call me a pickup. Guess I must've tied him up and threw him to the wolves, eh?"
"Don't get sarcastic with me, Larsen." Wesson leaned his head back with a groan. "I had to make nice with the neko last week. Fire their handler. Get a new handler for said neko. Handle everything myself while you rambled around with that big truck thing."
'Combine.' Leif corrected in his head. 'International, model 1480.'
"Then I had to focus on all that mess with the liminal trafficking, get the centaurs to back off their traditional celebration, find you during a blizzard after finding Roanette in the same blizzard!" he broke off to pour the rest of the liquid down his throat in a single pull. "And then I find out that one of the people I'm trying to arrest found you, and you threw him to the very same people he was trading!"
Leif gave him a look of sympathy. At least, he hoped it was sympathetic – it was hard to do with the government man. "Been a while since I had English. But I think that's rightly called irony."
"Yeah." Wesson held out his glass, receiving a refilled version in a moment. He peered into its depths mournfully, as if wishing for something stronger. "Can't disagree with that."
A long sigh eased its way from Leif's chest. It had been a long morning, and afternoon for that matter. It felt closer to evening than it really was; even the skies were dark.
'Dark skies? It was sunny just ten minutes ago.' He got up for a better view.
Out to the west he could see clouds, not the thunderous storm clouds or heavy snow-bringing monstrosities, but a warning all the same. His barometer, resting next to the front door, hanging off the wall, had a low pressure indication. A storm was brewing, but nothing as bad as earlier that week. Perhaps some rain, mixed with snow? Crops were in, livestock were under shelter.
"See something?" Wesson's expression was serious.
He shrugged. "Rain soon."
The Asian government man groaned. "Not again. Please tell me it's not another ice storm."
"Yah." Leif considered his options, and started walking again. Behind he heard a heartfelt sigh as the other man heaved himself to his feet. Leather shoes clicked against the floor behind him.
"Some outstanding business has to be taken care of, I'm afraid. One of the agreements I made with the Neko delegation was to talk to you about avoiding the same mistake they made before. Which, I admit, was my fault in part. Mostly Harley's fault though, just to be precise."
Leif took a careful step down into the den. To his knowledge the federal operative hadn't seen the room yet, although the inexplicable movements of furniture after their first meeting suggested outsider's presence. To date the man maintained there were no spy toys hidden in the house – which he now realized did not include equipment outside the house. Or in the barn. Or on a satellite looking down. 'Or whatever gadgetry those weird boys got to make life difficult for common folk.'
He settled on a chair, leaning back into its hard-backed luxuriousness. Its support meant everything to a tired spine, high enough for his shoulders and head to lean upon, and arms that extended at just the right height. A smile of pure bliss grew on his face.
"For future reference," Wesson sat down on a chair of similar manufacture, "Nekos can give you an awful scratch. Good Lord this's comfortable."
"Mhm." Leif murmured. His eyes were already drifting shut.
Wesson cleared his throat, loud enough to gain attention. "As I was saying, the Neko delegation offers a formal apology. They hope the presence of an elite combat unit helps convey the seriousness of their intentions, and request you overlook their … ah … indiscretion."
"Done." Leif waved a lazy hand. How could one remain angry with an entire race? A comfortable chair resolved many difficulties.
"Due to the depth of – wait. What?" the Federal man paused. "That's it?"
Leif grunted.
"You put me through hell just because you – oh. Oh." A look of realization crossed the agent's face. "You clever, cunning little sneak."
'Now what?' Leif rolled his eyeballs under closed lids.
"Alright, have it your way. I'll stay quiet."
'Finally.'
"Next time MON needs a negotiator though, I'm recommending they contact you first." Wesson went on, oblivious to the relaxing man's exasperation. "Anyone that can play three civilizations off each other just to –"
'Shut up,' Leif's care for the other man's verbosity dipped another notch as he prattled on. Something about obtaining a 'hot piece of tail' and 'building a harem' mixed with terms that made no sense. 'Just treating people right. Harems are nothing but trouble. Marriage is all well and good, but a pain. Just a girlfriend is trouble, why would anyone want to get mixed up in that monkey business?'
Wesson finally finished up by rising. "Thank you for your time, Mister Larsen. If there's anything I can do to help, please let me know. The new handler for the Neko will present himself tomorrow at three o'clock, conditions permitting."
Leif nodded. "You takin' the snake ladies with you?"
Wesson paused, then nodded. "That's a good idea, later this week perhaps. There's a villa being built for their use. The crew is being paid triple overtime as it is, might as well get them to hurry up the Snake Pit."
A raised eyebrow received no results, forcing Leif to speak. "The what now?"
"Ah," the agent looked embarrassed. "Snake Pit. It's a nickname the boys came up with for the lamias. Not sure if it's derogatory, but … that's for lawyers to decide. Praise be that's going to be a whole other can of worms I don't have to sort."
"Mm." Leif eased back. "'kay then."
The agent looked a touch surprised. "That's … it? Of course it is. You're you. As curious as a turtle." He shifted to glare. "Stop smirking. That's not a compliment."
Leif tried changing expressions. Based on the government man's mulish mien, it didn't succeed. The smaller man took his leave without waiting for Leif to get up – perhaps because of the attentive neko that appeared out of nowhere to shadow the man's exit.
Silence reigned for the next half hour, where Leif did his best to relax in a chair, knowing there were other people in his home. After the first fifteen minutes of quiet noises clinking from the kitchen, or making soft sounds on hardwood floors, it began to create a susurration he could withstand.
A quarter hour after that, and the low echoes of other people started to soothe. He felt his shoulders relax into the chair, its firm hardwood support accepting the burden he gave. Warm sunshine out the window belied the frigid temperatures so close beforehand, turning the last patches of snow into puddles. Only drifts thrown up by plows remained, and a few patches deep in the outbuilding shadows.
Breathing deep, he settled down a little more deeply into his chair. There were problems everywhere, but the sun shoe warm on his legs, and the chair's rocking felt soothing, as if immune to external influences. Hard edges had been worn down by careful carpentry and time, generations of little hands running over its smoothness. He could remember his father sitting in the chair, a bit shorter and stockier but nonetheless a steady presence.
His motions grew slower and slower, eyelids drifting shut. In moments the tired rancher succumbed to exhaustion. Asleep for the first time while knowing others were in his home.
A/N: November writing went well, but I've discovered that not letting a chapter sit for a few weeks results in vastly inferior writing. However, I have heard back from my beta, who m has had some life issues, but is alive and kicking! Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year!