The morning dawned, windy and clear. Some rain the prior night ensured an icy layer's presence, but gravel lacked asphalt's smooth texture. His thigh felt sore, but walking proved no hindrance. It was a comfortable walk, which explained part of his near-somnambulant state. A guiding, warm form nudged his good leg now and again, keeping him on track to the barn, which was a godsend under the gloomy skies.

"Morning," he greeted the filled stalls, half asleep. It had been a late night, filled with pondering. Multiple layers of thought had punished whatever plans he'd had for slumber, and important realizations. Even now he was considering their ramifications.

Frown lines creased his forehead, lopsided tan lines emphasizing the action. 'Nobody's coming back.' a curry brush came out of storage, followed by the dandy brush and a small collection of soft cloths. Confident, slow strides helped the horses know his intentions. Boots made a calming thump on any surface, unlike flimsy sneakers. 'Hasn't been a visit in years. Outside Christmas that one time.'

"Mornin' Patches," he entered the stall. "Long night too, eh?"

The horse whickered a greeting, bumping his shoulder with its head. Soon, Leif was lost in the steady motions of grooming, an initial bout of curry brush motions making small circles on the horse's barrel, followed by the dandy brush to smooth everything back.

'Two years ago. That was it.' Memories floated past his mind's eye. Aiden, the younger brother, a veterinarian well on his way to a solid career. 'Stopped by after graduatin', wanted to see the barns before he headed down to Kentucky. Promised he'd come back.'

He moved on to the softer brush, working out tangles in the patch-work horse's tail. Despite his tiredness, Leif never forgot to stand to one side – getting kicked had no part in his future plans. Patches whickered again, enjoying the attention.

'Erik before then, five years ago? Wonder how that investment firm is doing. Pointed Wesson his way for local business ideas, never heard back. But he promised to come back after college.'

An old sensation, not quite loneliness, but the pain of separation made a familiar presence. He'd always been better at solitary lifestyle, but even he needed family around once in a while.

'Gustav brought the kids around last spring,' a happy memory flickered at the thought. It had been long since children had last been on the ranch. They were so eager, moved so quickly, seizing every day with as much of a grip as their tiny hands could hold. 'Ivan and Brigette. Good kids.'

Happier memories buoyed his finishing the job, applying soft cloths to the sensitive regions. A horse's face held the thinnest skin, even if it was far thicker than that of a normal human's. As such it spoke to the deep trust when allowing a predatory individual such as a human such close familiarity. He respected that trust, slow movements ensuring every itchy place was scratched.

In truth, this was something that should've been done at a later time, early evening or after a good ride. But the action was soothing, and it had been a hard night.

Relaxing, Leif moved to the next stall. This one was a box that occupied a full eighth of the barn, perfect for its oversized occupant. Mongrel, the son of many mothers, resided there. His frame loomed in a corner, a little out of place for the affable, people-loving animal. But the big horse moved over fast enough when he saw the grooming accoutrements in Leif's hands.

"Easy there big boy," Leif's eyes fell half shut, beginning again. "Plenty o' time."

As his hands worked on their own, Leif's mind returned to the troublesome issue at hand. 'What to do?'

The issue had been resolved, or so he'd thought. Ensure property remained in Larsen hands, while making certain the liminal delegations had a bit of privacy and rights of their own. It was no different than a tenant contract other than the fact that the tenants weren't human, had diplomatic immunity, preferred to snuggle up when no one was looking – well. The differences were not in the category of hosting Death Row inmates. At least there was that.

His hands worked faster, twirling the curry brush in intricate circles along Mongrel's flanks. The big horse grumbled contentment, leaning into the soothing sensation – the poor horse had lacked a proper scratching post other than the stall's planks and the posts outside. Given his size the horse should've been able to push through obstruction, like possessive mares and scratching posts. But the animal was shy. It had taken weeks before he'd become confident around Leif.

Leif frowned, eyes shut. There had been signs of abuse. Mongrel had always been skittish around women. The original owner had been a woman, and sold him at a young age … the connections were disquieting.

Finishing, he moved on after giving the big horse a friendly rub. The next stall was a bit more open than the rest, but even in his tiredness, he could see the small mare standing in the corner.

Swinging the door shut – had it even been locked? – Leif started humming. Low tones, soothing sounds, were better than high-pitched noises when working alongside horses. Dogs appreciated the squeaky sounds, baritones sounded like growling. But horses adored the lower timbres, and the hissing sounds grooms knew.

The mare jumped when Leif started using the curry brush, but settled immediately. "Easy girl," he intoned, low and gentle. "Let's get you fancied up a little. Easy does it."

His hands worked on autopilot, dancing the brush across the withers. They seemed smaller than usual, but nothing outrageous. His dandy brush brought pleasurable sounds from the mare, leaning into the softer bristles as if it were the best thing to have been touched.

This time Leif decided to start at the back end, combing out the tail after a thorough job on the flanks. It was in decent shape already, but the mare seemed to enjoy it, if the trembling skin and exuberant sounds were any indication.

Finished, he worked his way forward, brushing an almost satin sheen into the hide. The legs were in excellent shape as well, which was not a surprise. All the horses had been limited to the barn and the paddock just outside during the last few days. They'd be eager for freedom. Even now the mare was making higher-pitched sounds, eager to get going.

"Almost done girl," he opened his eyes a half crack, working his brush up the smooth back into the long, pale mane, contrasting nicely with the darker golden coloration of her withers. It was long too, flowing in long strands from the tip of her head to the base of her wide neck, which itself was covered in a flannel warmer.

Leif stopped, moving around towards the front when he noticed a distinct absence of fur-covered hide. His frown grew deeper as his hands started to shift towards where the mare's head was, and realized his full weight was leaning into something warm, and soft.

Forcing his eyelids open, Leif found himself face to face with dark blue eyes, dancing in mischief, both of his hands frozen on a location he'd never willingly touch. Even after marriage it would need permission.

"Hello, Leif." Sophette glanced down at his hands, and dimpled a bright smile his way. "Bold, but I like that."

Grandfather's Shoulder

Hours Later

Leif inhaled a deep lung full of wintry Montana air. His hands still tingled where they'd made accidental contact … 'No. Don't think about it. Relax.'

At his side rested an old hunting rifle, the Remington 783. He'd modified it himself with a walnut stock, four-round steel magazine and better quality scope. Iron sights were good, but deer hunting meant taking responsibility for ensuring minimal pain.

Far off over the treetops, he could see the ranch house. Even without binoculars there were indications of motion, the sun glinting off windshields and once in a while the sound of heavy equipment. Air proved minimal hindrance to sound on the Plains, and when the wind was right, could carry a baby's cry over a dozen miles.

They'd had neighbors with children. It was empirical.

He reached up to wipe his forehead, then froze as the palms approached his face. 'Get over it. It was an accident. She didn't mind, you know you didn't, and everyone's hunky-dory.'

Swallowing, he finished the motion, clearing the sweat from his hike. Down below, perhaps three hundred feet lower, his ATV sat silent and unmoving. After a hurried explanation to Wesson – whom had looked inordinately pleased – and a quick talk with Earl – whom had looked unbearably smug – he'd made an escape, stopping only long enough to tell Aredhel and Roanette he'd be out hunting on Grandfather's Shoulder. His leg was judged of sufficient health to withstand the journey, and multiple promises of being careful had been extracted.

There hadn't been so much concern over one stupid leg in the past ten years. While heartwarming to be the target of care, it was also nauseating to be considered incapable.

There were many deer present in the woods surrounding the outcropping. Half a dozen had walked past paying no mind to the human hunched in a deer stand, four walls and a roof sheltering him from the wind. They'd shy from his odor, but the wind was blowing in the wrong direction for that. Too, he'd changed into clothes stored away from the house, washed in scentless soaps.

A massive buck, nearly thirty points on the antlers, slid into the clearing. A small collection of does clustered in its shadow, eyes watchful, ears dancing. The quiet breeze shifted direction, bringing a faint susurration of heavy hardware from Havre's direction. Heads rose, ears redirected, distracted.

Leif used the distraction, setting down the rifle in favor of his old reliable. The large buck sensed a disturbance against the wind, turning a haughty glare towards the source of disturbance. Leif's focus sharpened, taking in the brilliant eyes. He pulled the trigger.

The Canon AE1's shutter clicked. Aperture settings ensured the visible light highlighted the deer's statuesque figure, light tan fur growing thick on its burly shoulders. The focal point of the image, or so he hoped, was the dark eyes, how they gleamed in the shade as if staring through all barriers into an observer's very soul.

More ears twitched at the sound, and again as its mechanical film advancement ratcheted under Leif's thumb. He took a second shot, then a third. As he took a fourth picture, the big buck shook itself, and glided into the trees, sun-dappled shadows blending over its fur in moments.

Leif watched it go, wearing a fond smile he likely didn't realize was showing. 'Old George. Still around, and popular, looks like.'

The camera made a descent to the small resting place, from which it would be withdrawn at the end of the day. His rifle rose once more, its fel purpose evident in every line.

'You get a pass old man, but not everyone does.'

This time Leif scanned the trees with sober intent, putting aside the day's confusion in favor of the present. More animals teemed the woods than almost any other part of the property, the benefit of having the food reserve farmland represented beside cover, untouched by developers for over two centuries. If one were observant, they could predict where potential prey lurked.

Chickadees darted past, bobbing flight carrying them from branch to branch as their characteristic sound rang clear. Far towards the lake he could hear loons calling, while chipmunks made their frantic last-minute preparations. Inside the week, he knew the little mammals would be invisible, tucked underground with vast food stores.

Leaning back, he could see at least two hawks patrolling above, keeping their distance from the liminal settlement. He'd witnessed the flying bird woman twice, spinning out towards the predators. It had to be a game of some sort, but one the wildlife failed to appreciate.

More crunching steps caught his ears' attention. A second herd approached, more wary than their predecessors.

Leif evaluated their number. There were two visible, and the faint movements of another three.

'Not the first,' he noted the young appearance of the foremost specimen. 'Gravid. Let her grow up a bit, have a few more fawns. Second one's possible; older. But there's more ….'

He waited. Patient, unmoving, qualities that served anyone well but were invaluable to a hunter. His forbearance was rewarded by the appearance of two more deer, more cautious than the others.

'That one.' Leif focused on the last deer, noting its antlers and overall bulk. Scars could be seen on its shoulders, and a pronounced limp reduced its movements to a mistrustful stalk. 'One buck, two doe – have to check what the elves got so far.'

The tip of his rifle extended from the hide, tracking the deer. Leif waited until he had a clear shot, exhaled a slow breath, and feathered the trigger.

A sharp crack broke the silence. Wildlife scattered, but in the halfhearted sensation that only true rural areas could demonstrate. Local birds rose from the trees, only to settle down a short distance away, and while the deer scattered, it was in bounding leaps into the underbrush.

His target, the buck, made a similar leap, but staggered as it did so.

Leif watched it. He didn't bother firing again; a quick reflex shot would work for some, but was not necessary the way he'd been taught.

A few heartbeats later, the deer collapsed, in sight of the stand. Leif waited until all movement had ceased, then clambered down. Favoring his bad leg took extra time, but this was a sunny Fall morning, in late November. He could take things slow.

Cautious, he approached the still form. This was the most dangerous point of any hunt, a wounded animal had nothing left to lose, would do anything for a few more seconds of life. Circling around until he had a clear line of sight, he fired a second shot through the heart, a small hole appearing next to where the first shot had penetrated.

The body twitched, but otherwise did not move, and Leif relaxed.

Moving again he stripped off his bright orange jacket, hanging it in a tree. The next part would be bloody, but necessary. Good thing he'd brought the big knife.

As he worked, his thoughts resumed their earlier path. 'Messed up. Shouldn't have gone out half asleep. Won't happen again.'

The train of thought lead back to his state of mind in the barn itself, the subjects that had kept him up all night. Of family that had never returned. 'Gone on to live their own lives. Forget the promises to come back.'

His knife made a rough cut. Leif scowled, steadying his hand. 'They all promised. Just gone for a while. Until after college. Earn a few years full-time wages, then come back and invest. Liars.'

'Careful, keep track of the blade.' The diaphragm provided no resistance to sharpened steel. His own hand would provide even less. 'Good. Can't blame 'em really. No point running a ranch if your heart ain't in it. What's it say? Where your treasure is, there is your heart also. Guess that means they're where they want to be.'

Squatting and lifting with the powerful muscles of his thighs wasn't an option. But Leif still managed to hang up the carcass, rope looped around a tree limb to let the body drain. 'This site is done for a week at least. Better bag the next doe out on the other ridge. Or down by the lake. Hope there aren't centaurs there – could make hunting difficult.'

The thought of careless hunters made Leif give an involuntary shudder. 'Fools would take a pot shot at a walking human. A centaur? Four legs and lots of hide? Idiots.'

Crunching leaves drew his attention. Leaves in the tree-filled segment of his property had already dropped their leaves, early though it might be considered by those in more southern latitudes. Alarm shot through Leif's system. 'Not a mountain lion, too loud. Deer? No. Hunter? Not legally ….' His gaze dropped to the unloaded firearm at his side. 'Dang.'

A spare figure emerged from the trees, clad in blue overalls and flannel shirt. Piercing gray eyes, deep set in a narrow face caught Leif's attention.

"Gramps." He resumed looking for his coat, then picked it up. "Hunting?"

The old man hefted his own rifle, giving a small shrug at the same time. "Still not doing that Optimal Ratio?"

"Eh." Leif gave his own shoulders a lift. They'd grown stiff in the hours-long vigil. "No need. Less management. Better blood."

Gramps hawked, spitting into the tall grass. "Hear ya. Over in Pembleton they got a few farms doin' one-to one buck-doe. Lots o' deer." Disgust enveloped his features. "Buncha misfits."

Leif gave a considering look to the features of his kill. "Wouldn't mind keeping numbers down a little more. Elves are helpin' there."

Gramps expression soured. "Yeah. Real lollapalooza. I'll be goin.'"

Leif quirked an eyebrow as the older man spun away, marching into the underbrush. "What happened?"

The old man paused, then started walking again before stopping. Then he started off once more, before grinding to a halt, resembling nothing more than an old truck with engine trouble. After a few more strides, the spriggan spun around, glaring. "You know who's down there?"

"Nope." Leif settled back.

"I'll tell you who," his voice descended into an enraged growl. "Missus Lithlinede."

It took a moment for realization to set in.

"Wait." The name registered. "Red's ma?"

"Damn straight!" Gramps jerked his head aside, sending a glob of saliva into the trees. Leif noticed its inhuman accuracy, and the small divot left in a standing boulder. "The …." He regained control, breathing hard through his nose. "Aredhel's ma. Her."

Leif sank back. "Oh."

An indeterminable growl shredded its way through the old man's throat. "And now she wants to talk to me."

Gratitude for a comparative shorter lifespan flowed through Leif's soul. 'At least when I go it won't be with a couple centuries practice.'

All he could think to do though was remain silent.

The old man sat down, then rose again. Anger quivered through his every feature. "The dame thinks she can just drop in an' chew the fat? Like nothin' happened?"

"Careful," Leif leaned against a tree, letting the weight ease off his leg. "Don't want a stroke at your age."

Gramps snorted. "Got a good century left, if'n not two."

"Still ain't good for your health." Leif opined. "Course, not that I know what's good for liminals."

"Hah." Gramps closed his eyes, breathing deep. "Ain't much different, 'sides a little hardware, mebbe a little different way to fool around." One eye slit open, looking sideways at Leif. "Heard you were canoodling with a filly in the barn."

This time it was Leif's turn to exhibit his frustration through expectoration. "Pah. Didn't sleep a wink last night. Got up early, take care 'o the horses. Started currying … figured out too late one of 'em was Sophette."

A snigger heralded a distinct lack of sympathy. "Doll dizzy you ain't. But it ain't everyone who's got a buncha khaki wacky dames huntin' him down."

Leif tried stemming the headache by pinching the bridge of his nose. "Gramps. English, please."

"Gonna get in a collie-shangle, eh?" a mischievous glint was in the older man's eye. "Ain't gonna try the jammiest bits 'o jam?"

"I know you're old Gramps!" Leif squeezed his eyes shut too, hoping it would help. "You're about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine."

Thin shoulders rose and fell, unrepentant. "True."

A long pause stretched as Leif stared back at the ranch house. From this vantage point the individuals were invisible; the house itself was hard to discern as anything but a brighter patch of regular lines in a collection of asymmetrical borders. On a clear day, a man could see forty miles – eighty if he was keen-eyed. Even so, Kitzscher was in easy eyesight, a small town less than five hundred citizens. From this height it was a smear of discoloured blobs on the regular patterns of fields and country roads. It had been large enough for a local school, before the county had shut it down.

Without thinking, a long sigh heaved from the depths of his chest.

Alert, Gramps turned, following the younger man's line of sight. "Ah. Family?"

Leif didn't respond, inhaling a long, slow breath. Neither commented on the faint quavering component audible in its depths.

The spriggan's ears twitched, pointed ears, now that Leif paid attention to them. Not as much as an elf, but more than normal humans. "We're alone out here. Told 'em I'd take care o' security."

Dead silence was his response.

"Larsen," Gramps settled on a fallen tree. "You have to talk to someone. I ain't goin' anywhere."

Leif cut back towards the old-looking man, a sense of defeat already present. "Already did."

"Hm?" Gramps tilted his head.

"Left. You did."

"How?"

The young rancher slumped. "Gramps is gone. Old man Knudtsen. World War Two vet. Neighbor. Honest man. Gone."

"Oh." A raspy chuckle came from the old man's chest. He stopped as a pair of tufted titmice landed nearby, each less than a handspan long and utterly fearless. One hopped closer, landing on Gramp's knee, gray-blue feathers contrasting with the worn denim. Both fluttered back when he moved, but moved closer again as he grew still.

"Don't blame you." He was quiet, watching the birds as they in turn watched him. "Whole world's turned on its ear. But mebbe I can take a guess?"

Leif stirred, but failed to move.

"Near as I can tell," Gramps held out a finger. "Your folks moved out years ago. Needed someone to run the farm. I remember the day they left. Young Heinrich was cryin' when you wasn't looking. Melody too."

One of the birds took a chance, landing on the extended finger. Its perch remained rock steady. "Forget which of you kids left first. But there were three still there by then. Guessin' they said the same thing? Promised to come back? Help out when they could?"

No emotion showed on Leif's face. He gave a single nod.

"Figgered." Gramps moved slow, reaching into one pocket, pulling out a small handful of sunflower seeds. The titmouse leaped from the extended finger to the filled palm, seizing one of the seeds before darting away. "But they ain't comin' back."

"Own lives to live," Leif pointed out. "Their choice."

"Yah," Gramps agreed. "It is. But they still broke their promise. Abandoned you. Betrayed you."

Leif froze, then turned a very slow, very furious look at the old man. "Nobody betrayed nobody."

"Emotions don't care 'bout logic." Gramps fired back. "Know that much. Why you think I'm here, 'stead of bustin' chops with that wet rag?"

Leif's gaze dropped to their abandoned rifles, leaning against a tree, and the hanging carcass beyond.

"Today's just an excuse an' you know it." Gramps followed his eyes. He sighed. "Way I see it, you're thinkin' so long as you're pluggin' along, mebbe they'll come back."

The look he received for that comment made his hands rise defensively. "Just a theory, mind. But you're one o' the hardest working folk east of the Rockies. Work hasta be done. Don't mean it gotta be done now."

Leif stared at him a few moments more, then shook his head. "I'm good. Got the ranch. If the family comes back, fine. If not, I've got all I need. Settin' up a Will, just in case, too."

Gramps sat up, dropping the birdseed. The birds scattered. "You done what?"

Leif rose, checking the deer's carcass. It was close to dry, almost ready for butchering after it sat a day or two. He turned back. "A Will. Last Will and Testament? Getting' things set up so if'n I pop my clogs, the folks over at the Old Stead – Havre – can still stay."

The old man stared, jaw dropped open. "What've they done to you boy?"

Leif rose, using his cane to maintain balance. "Reality, old timer. Just reality."

Leif managed to shoot another two deer before sunset, and strapped them onto the ATV them next to the first. Tradition demanded a party for a successful hunt. In turn, he celebrated as he always had: triple helpings of the preserves laid down a few weeks prior, on top of what the MRE labels insisted to be bread. By texture and long experience in baking for one, it felt to be shoe leather. But it held together, and supported strawberry preserves well, even if its flavor lacked any semblance to what the word meant.

'No wonder the soldier boys are so tough,' he masticated another mouthful of bland pseudo-bread, beneath the mouthwatering preserves. 'They want the whole thing over so they can get back to real food.'

Finished with his repast, Leif climbed back onto the four-wheeler, riding low with the additional dead weight. His leg twinged, but didn't react in any greater fashion – frustrating though it had been, he'd taken things slow and avoided exacerbating the injury.

The engine turned over, twin headlights turning the dusk into something slightly less dark, and he was off once more.

Unlike the usual machine he drove, this was a larger vehicle. The Polaris RZR series had a reputation for many things, but the part necessary for an individual of his circumstances was all that mattered: It had a semi-enclosed cabin, and a cargo carrier. Both were essential for a rancher in a state where winter winds could slice through wool like a fire hose through a group of entitled urchins.

It was no use looking at the sky. Until the month moved on a little, it was too early for the moon but too late for the sun. The cloud cover gave a few hints, but overcast everything in a wet haze. For now he'd have to be content with remembering what it had been like earlier, and have confidence in his own predictions.

'Gonna be late.' He checked the speedometer, analyzing its accuracy. 'Pretty good. Should be back by eight-ish.'

Trails through the Larsen properties were poorly maintained, but they existed. An idiot looking at a prairie assumed a straight path in every direction. An even greater specimen of stupidity would presume that descending from a hillside to the flatlands would be linear – one did not grow up relying on himself by making such judgements.

Leif followed the trail's dogleg turn, retreating half the progress he'd made eastward, but gaining distance northward. The lesser traveled routes looked more like depressions in the soil, but were clear of bushes and trees.

Reaching the flatland he could accelerate, but only a small amount. Gravel roads were excellent places to maximize efficiency – but even flat ground had its dips and rises. Plus he had cargo, which needed handling.

Sighing Leif throttled up another three miles per hour, weaving a sinuous path along a high ridge. To the West, he could see Grandfather's Shoulder; to the East the entire expanse of the Great Plains stretched out before him. Southeast held no civilization, only the Kobernick's had lived there, and they'd vanished long ago. He knew of their presence only by family legend and the house shuttered out by itself, next to an overgrown gravel patch.

The path swooped down into a lower layer, and wound back up again. Then it repeated itself. Each time the rise came to a lower height, the land's acknowledgement of the once tributary that had flowed through Larsen lands.

Leif coasted downhill, powering through the upward slopes until just before the crest, easing off on the accelerator to make low-gravity sensations in his gut. It took practice, but was a secret pleasure, one that the dogs couldn't stand.

Grinning like a loon, he sailed down the next slope and started up the next. On the way up the left front tire found a badger hole, jouncing the vehicle sideways, throwing his pocket knife onto the floor. It slid towards the side of his foot, angled so that the next down slope would send it underneath the brake.

Grumbling, Leif leaned down to pick it up. Then wondered why a cold breeze was suddenly whipping at his face.

Sitting upright again, he noticed several things.

First, the latest ridge – which was just a hill if he were honest – far more visible than before.

Second, a cold wind was going through where the windshield had been.

Third, his hat felt like someone had yanked on the end, pulling it half off.

He let the ATV roll over the hill top, coasting down the other side. It was a straight enough route, and had nothing to hit for perhaps a mile in any direction. He took off his hat, feeling it through gloves.

In the darkness there was only a bit of illumination from the headlight's washback, but even in that dim lighting showed a massive tear in his stocking cap. It ran from the back left through to the front, but along the side, as if something had sliced his hat while he was wearing it.

Any humor fell from Leif's face. He spun in the seat, stomping on the brake. There, just where his head sat, was a starburst hole over an inch in diameter.

'Gunshot. Almost killed me. If I hadn't been leaning – over – that …'

He slapped the headlights off and gunned the engine. The vehicle jumped forward like a startled Whitetail, accelerating in a fashion outside the manual's accepted limitations.

'To hell with safety. Someone took a shot at me!' he slewed the Polaris around, taking it away from the track's linear progression. As the vehicle rose above the surrounding prairie once more, he ducked.

A second shot brushed through the back windshield, connecting fracture lines with the first. What was left of the windshield crackled under the second assault, dropping chunks of plastic inside the vehicle. Then the frame was descending below the horizon, and more rounds would need to penetrate a dozen yards of Prairie sod, and the fibrous root systems that dulled modern steel plow blades with regularity.

Once below the skyline, Leif twisted the vehicle to one side, travelling along the low point's depths. After a few seconds he jerked the ATV back, roaring through underbrush, crashing through sage and tall grass alike.

If another shot came his way he couldn't hear it. But after clearing a small clump of trees, he took a moment to pop open the circuit box just under the steering column, and yanked the brake lights connection. 'kay, now I can brake without lighting up everything like a Christmas tree. Options.'

Slamming the machine into four wheel drive, Leif pushed the throttle all the way over. Under his guidance the small machine's engine throbbed a deeper pitch, all four tires biting into the ground. Clods of earth flew into the air as he began to slalom his way back towards the ranch house through the lowest areas a prairie could offer.

'Right out in the open.' There was little point hiding his goal, so Leif made for the ranch house by the most direct route possible, while taking advantage of the rolling land. 'Snipers. This was planned out. What else they got? Rockets?'

Temptation lurked in the form of his own rifle. While it lacked the scope for now, it did retain enough stopping power to drop a mule deer. In all arrogance, he was a good enough shot, too. Brief moments passed as he considered, the ATV's tires slowing. Then reality struck, and the same tires spat chunks of rich loam as they accelerated. 'Nope. Might be friendlies out there. Don't have the advantage here. Maybe if my leg were back to a hundred percent ….'

Grumbling occupied his thoughts for the rest of the trip. No further shots were fired in his direction, so far as he could tell. Yet he encountered no allies, despite knowing the elves, dryads and centaurs had permission to travel the entire property. The elves possessed spectacular night vision, and at least one of the liminal factions kept patrols in his general vicinity at all times. Against his wishes perhaps, but about now would've been useful for a team to show up.

'Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em,' he grumped. 'Still … prefer this to being followed all over.'

Unwilling, his thoughts turned to the spriggan that had visited his hunting site a few short hours before. 'He spying on me? Shoot, has he been playing neighbor all this time?'

Disturbing didn't begin to cover his agitation. 'Neighbors don't spy. Keep an eye on each other, sure. But spy?'

Another burst of frustration sent the throttle upwards, then back down. 'No road rage. Gotta keep safe. Gotta get back. How far out?'

It was going to be a long drive.

'Maybe one of those radios would be a good idea.'

He'd have to see. If the liminals could change for the general welfare, maybe he could too. 'Debatable, but possible.'

A/N: Happy New Years!