Leif continued his labors far into the night. Working angry was foolish, he knew that, but it was either work or coil up on a blanket, too angry to sleep. Working in the middle of the night without backup was also foolish – this was nothing new. A farmer on his own wound up working solo most of his career, and Leif had been alone for over a decade now.

It hadn't started that way, but accidents and prior commitments had taken their toll. First one brother, then another, then a sister had gotten married, and his parents had that accident … no. He couldn't really complain. The only reason he still ran the farm was because he wanted it that way. Hired hands brought in once a year, harvesting a few fields was one thing; lending out land for a worthy cause bordered on excessive generosity. But both brought in cash, or resources he couldn't make himself. But Leif preferred the solitude, he certainly considered it better than having vixens prance through his home, parading a life he utterly detested with every fiber of his being. Life came through hard work and self-control, not shameless indulgence.

The large watch on his wrist glowed under judicious examination. Its simple dial had the shorter arm resting on the fourth digit, while the longer arm hovered between the fifth and sixth numerals. A thin sweep-hand jerked along its breakneck pace, moving one space every second.

'You didn't bother checking on the house,' a calm inner voice noted. 'Either you do not care, or you trust Wesson to follow orders.'

'Not orders' he contradicted himself. 'Contract. Different.'

It was a troubling situation. What had possessed that man? Hadn't it been crystal clear how much Leif loathed company? Did the rejected attentions of two centaurides – and if he were honest with himself, every female centaur that had crossed his path – mean nothing to the man? Yes the cat-eared girls had been attractive enough, but nothing had been sent to warn Leif of their presence.

'Not quite true,' his innate sense of fair play drove into the front of his mind. 'Wesson did tell you beforehand that you needed to meet with new tenets, didn't he?'

Accurate, in a limited fashion. Meeting new people had become a reality once the construction crews began rolling through. It put Leif on edge, like there was something standing just beyond the pale circles of his combine's headlights, watching him. A ridiculous thought though.

Wasn't it?

He jerked to scan the edges of his field, then relaxed. The bare moonlight was dimmer than a full moon, but sufficient to reveal the form of say, an individual as large as a dog, or horse for that matter. There were three dark blurs where his collies rested, taking turns to stay awake and watch. He wasn't sure who had taught them that trick. It was a little unnerving, considering the thick rugs he'd spread in the truck bed for them. Under most circumstances they would fall asleep in no time; perhaps they sensed his anxiety? It was certain they were not shapeshifters – the last full moon he'd driven himself to town, purchased a few kits and a hotel bed for the night, and returned to check.

Then he'd felt silly. They'd been on the farm for years, as were their ancestors, all of whom had experienced nights of the full moon. Sometimes they howled a little more than normal, but that was dogs being dogs. It beat the increased crime rates observed by certain human quarters, he wouldn't begrudge the animals a little fun.

The headlights of his combine shone on plain grass, the next field processed. Leif raised the hungry maw out of the way and made a turn. The grain truck wasn't full yet, but this load should do it. Then he could –

Leif slapped himself.

'Doin' more work past four in the morning is plain foolishness. If a storm were approachin', sure. But there's no storm, no deadline, just a bad bout of emotions.' He sighed, turning over the wheel one more time to bring the hulking metal machine into alignment with the truck. 'Time to call it a night. Maybe eat something and sleep, then keep going once it gets light.'

If his calculations were right, that'd be less than four hours off anyway. Plenty of time for a nap.

On a clear night, in the middle of the Great Plains, a man could hear a sneeze ten miles away. History books told Leif that a baby's cry could be heard twice that distance, depending on the baby and direction of the breeze. He felt shutting down the combine's engine was like that in reverse. Taking the ear protectors off was like taking his head out of a bag of cotton batting, the tiny sounds of what few nocturnal creatures still moved resuming their cacophony.

Leif took pleasure in that sound. One or two frogs were sounding their last calls, most had already begun their deep sleep. A sleepy duck call or two resounded from the oxbow lake direction – what had the construction workers been doing there? They'd expanded a lot, connecting one end to the larger river further upstream. He'd have to look in on it sometime, see what trouble the construction crews were getting up to.

All three dogs were sitting bolt upright now, looking straight at him from the truck bed. He gave them a tired wave, chuckling when all three immediately dropped back down. They knew him so well.

He made his way over freshly-harvested field. Wheat was a good crop to grow out north, the durum variety taking the most care – and earning the highest price. It was a point of pride that he'd ensured the growth of over a thousand acres of the plant, closer to three if he were thinking straight.

A saddlebag yielded the cold stores raided from his freezer. Half-frozen pie was a good thing on a hot day, at night in a Montana September? Perhaps not so much. What had he been thinking?

'I didn't,' blunt honesty forced his conscience to whisper. 'But there is a functional nine-volt and steel wool in the other bag. Why not light a fire?'

He shook the thought away. This late, he'd just make do with a loaf of bread and some jerky. There were many nights spent that way, just the dogs and the stars, shining over a field cleaned by the strength of his own two hands. It was a satisfying feeling, seeing so much progress made by one man. Independence did that; there were city folk that got lost looking for bread in the grocery store – he made it from seed to pulling it out of the oven! When or if the alleged Apocalypse came, it would be farmers that lasted the longest, not target-rich, resource-poor hives of concrete and steel.

But Leif couldn't help but consider as he sat, chewing the cool bread and salty meat. Arrogance was a mistake farmers couldn't afford. Had he made a big mistake? Not some little peccadillo, a banana-peel slip and laugh. Had he made a true error?

All he knew for certain was that for the umpteenth time in as many years, he was doing his job, watching over his beloved land. But for the first time, he was feeling ... different. Like a voice should be asking questions, listening if he said something important, just … being there.

Leif stopped mid-bite. Shock bolted through his system, marshalling panicked brain cells into terrifying formations like his cattle smelling wolf. It was a strange thought indeed, one he hadn't recognized but had been feeling for quite some time now.

Was he lonely?

The emotion went under careful consideration. No major investment could be made without calculated thought; matters concerning emotion provided exponential results. Worse, actions based on emotions proved treacherous, even during the best of times. Operating in vacuum was like broadcasting seed when one couldn't evaluate the ground. Maybe something would grow, or maybe the venture would bear weeds. One thing was certain, a little emotion didn't necessitate jumping into anything. Fools jumped before they looked, and Leif Larsen was no one's fool.

Sleep was necessary, he decided. It had been, what. Less than two months since the Liminals had arrived? There was time to process emotions later. Years. Decades. Maybe never? Never was good.

A tortured groan rose from the depths of his chest. He just hoped slumber would be merciful that night, and come soon.

[break]

Dawn broke and with it, Leif's slumber. Earthshattering revelations or not, sleep had never been hard to find. All farmers understood the basic principle: sleep when you could, work when you couldn't. When neither was possible, find a way to make either a possibility.

This time he brought his meal into the combine's cab, eating cold bread and meat with a gallon of water for company. He'd cleared over one hundred acres the previous twenty-four hours, and with luck he'd clear close to double that today. The sun-streaked sky was filled with vague promises of clouds, the wispy ones just barely within sight giving way to the lower ones that reminded him of whipped cream back on holidays.

"Good weather," he commented. Unresponsive machinery clicked under his touch. "Good day to make hay. Or a little wheat, heh."

The combine rumbled into higher gear, its front-mounted hardware whirling to life. Leif narrowed his eyes, gauging the distance with care. The metal edge came to a stop a short distance inside the field's boundary, leaving a good six inches of wheat unharvested. Acceptable; it was an old tradition, dating back to the times when the poor gleaned a living from farmer's fields. He'd turn a little sharp at the edges too, leaving a generous portion there as well. By itself it wasn't much, but when practiced across his entire farm, it added up. Deer needed feed during winter, and for them a bushel or three could make the difference between life and death.

Once more the underslung blades cut into the golden stalks, rotating devices scything swaths of long stalks into the cutting teeth. Uneven terrain made the distant edges bend down, cutting just a few more inches than necessary, but nothing the tumbler couldn't handle.

Leif's mind returned to the subject rejected during nightfall, ruminating over its implications.

In the end, what did it matter? He'd seen the paperwork himself, the federal contract between liminal and human governments. There were lists and reams of rules against fraternization between species. Wesson's statements aside, there didn't appear to be legal interaction possible. He was surprised the agent admitted to such a thing; getting drummed out of service was the least he'd have expected.

Recognizing the futility of needless worry, Leif put the problem on the back burner, letting his subconscious mind worry it over. It was a full-sunshine day, fields ahead filled with the golden-brown hue of ripe wheat. There were a half-dozen granaries stuffed to the brim, and no less than four truckloads either sold or waiting to be driven to the grain elevator. Should another be sold, or kept?

A smile blossomed on his face. These were problems a farmer loved to have. Down-to-earth issues of nature's bounty.


By evening he'd accomplished over half his intended goal: close to a hundred and seventy-five acres harvested. Despite having to offload another two truckloads of the precious grain, his machinery had worked to perfection. Usual circumstances meant a tooth would've broken at the least, leaving a thin but important trail of unharvested crops in a long line across every field – Leif was generous, but not that willing to donate the best of his crops. It took a few hours to haul in the affected combine, strip out the bad part, weld it back together again and reassemble it once more before returning to the field. Having solid equipment improved life's quality dramatically.

He kept going as the moon rose, still in its near-crescent phase, but gibbous. Neither hide nor hair of Wesson or his liminals had made itself visible, although the unnatural reactions of the wildlife ensured his awareness of their presence. Geese didn't take off like that in reaction to dogs; they were smarter than that. Something lurked out of sight.

But he couldn't stop to check on them tonight. The last wheat field was under the edge of his blade now. Headlights threw their harsh, yellow glow across the waving crop, twin semicircles showing his personal achievement throughout the night. The wing mirror set over a dozen feet off the ground revealed the close-cropped stubble trailing out behind his vehicle, the spreader tossing bits of chaff and dried stalks out in a miasma of agricultural detritus.

Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. Leif made pass after pass, sweeping through the tall grain with a budding sense of anticipation. There was always a certain achievement to finishing a field, an entire crop. Soon the entire harvest would be in, a week at the longest, and the next stage would begin.

Before that though, he'd take a small break. The weather had been remarkable generous this year; it'd be foolish to not take one last withdrawal from its bank of kindness, if possible. Hunting was a pastime his family had cherished for generations – first to stay fed, then as a duty to the land. One sad family tale told of an utter lack of maintenance, and the massive die-offs of starving herds that resulted. Witnessing what had happened drove home the care a man needed to have for his land, not just the plants, but the animals under his authority as well.

But that was later. Now, the last few stalks were being sliced, fed into the processor and going into the hopper. Leif raised the blades and turned the great machine back towards the gran truck. Tonight, he'd relax by a fire. Tomorrow there would be time enough for uploading the success of another year.

As the faded red combine approached the place where he'd last left the grain truck, twin red sparks caught his attention. Tail lights, out by the property lines. Not the recognizable oblongs of Wesson's government vehicles, but the more familiar shape of an old sedan.

Leif watched until the brighter headlights came into view, harsh against the velvet skies. It had turned onto the Zakapenko property. If he knew his topography, it was stopped behind a stand of trees planted in the last generation, invisible from the road in all directions but one. His. By all logic, no one would expect someone out here, unless they'd kept track of each field and drawn anticipatory correlating diagrams.

'Who could that be?' he wondered. Earl was still in rehab, getting ready to head back East. The Olsen's were in a different direction, and knew better than to trespass after the last event. 'Lost from the highway? Powerful long drive to get all the way out here. Maybe someone from the base?'

He liked that idea even less. By and large the military presence kept money flowing through Bozeman's city coffers; the soldiers were friendly folk as a rule. But once in a while its less intelligent members decided adventures in the rural regions was unavoidable. Vague logic, aided by the copious consumption of alcohol and powders of questionable legality, seemed to convince them that low population meant no witnesses. 'If they try using combines for crash derby again, I'll shoot first and ask questions never.'

That was a bad memory.

"Might as well go see what's going on," he murmured. Eugene pricked his ears up, looking at him with dark, intelligent eyes. "Yeah. You come too boy. The girls stay at the truck."

Walking cross-country was no problem for Leif. He knew every hillock and tree, played in its shallow streams before knowing what 'mountain lion' meant. Later he'd protected cattle from coyotes and wolves, herding them across the vast expanse through superior knowledge and tactics. Hunting only honed that knowledge from a keen edge into a razor-sharp, downright instinctive awareness. Darkness only made things a little slower, since he was trying to remain quiet while carrying a rifle. This very model in fact, an old Ruger handed down from an earlier generation. If he'd been thinking more clearly a less expensive weapon could have sufficed, but the value was well-placed; it was rugged, accurate, and whatever it hit stayed hit.

Coming closer, he checked the safety, popping open the falling-block chamber just enough to see inside. One copper-jacketed bullet rested there, gleaming in the dim lighting before he slid it back with the ease of long practice. Extra rounds stayed in the cheek-rest, ready for use. 'Better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.'

Eugene chuffed approval, trotting at his side, soundless in the dark.

The pair crept on, coming into aural range. Metallic rattling, of a muffler that needed adjustment, resonated over the ground. The car's engine sounded to be in poor condition as well; Leif could make out the intermittent squealing of the serpentine belt. It brought a frown to his face. Lack of manners aside, this individual was either no mechanic, or didn't care about the state of his hardware.

'Don't know what's worse,' Leif stayed in the shadows, now close enough to see the car's license plate. In-state, but the numbers weren't distinct yet. 'Not takin' care of your gear, or not carin' enough to not take care of your gear.'

The crunch of another set of tires sent him deeper into cover. A second vehicle, its engine under far better maintenance than the first, rolled into the drive. Contrary to common sense its headlights were dark and its owner had ensured the connection between the brakes and tail lights severed. 'Or the fuse was disconnected. Easier that way – yeah. Newer car, twenty-ten Chevy what's-its-name. Useless in both town and country? Avalanche, that's it.'

A dark red vehicle rolled into the main drive, and came to an almost-stop. Its driver spotted the parked sedan, and rolled close. The buzz of windows coming down reached Leif, but the words spoken were muffled.

'Gotta get closer,' he shifted his rifle to a different grip, one an old Russian immigrant had taught the family. Grasping the foresight with his left hand and letting the stock rest on the forearm of his right arm, he let the sling around his neck take the pressure. Movement was awkward, but still faster than standing still.

More words drifted across the night air. Terms he didn't recognize, referencing 'Product' and 'Merchandise' … were they using code words out in the middle of nowhere?

"Good enough place to meet next time," he froze as the next sentence came in full clarity. It sounded male, but raspy, as if spoken by a smoker. "But there's too much attention at the neighbor's."

"Don't worry about Larsen," a female voice answered. "That oaf's always worked up about harvest or something on his farm, saw him working past midnight yesterday. The Feds are doing something though, probably that Preserve thing they've been going on about for the past couple years."

"Huh," the male voice responded. "Could be a good thing. Nobody's watching the east side, everything's focused on that building project going up. You have the truck?"

"You betcha," she responded happily. "Figger we can fit ten-mebbe-fifteen head inside. Next week?"

"No." the male voice changed to a cold tone, decisive. "Tomorrow. Too many things are changing. Bring the truck, and you'll have thirty kilos after we load up."

"Done." The woman's voice seemed equally firm, although inexperienced by comparison. "See ya then."

The red tail lights brightened, then dimmed once more as the older car pulled away. Leif recognized the license plate, one of Olsen's cars. The driver's voice had to belong to Brunhilda Olsen, Rupert Olsen's somewhat chunky second daughter. Old man Olsen had only two daughters, the eldest lived out of state, if memory served.

Leif waited until the second car pulled away. Unlike the Olsen's vehicle it took its time, delaying until the other's lights had vanished. Montana's flat lengths were long, its high points visible from miles away. Even then it idled on the downslope, letting gravity do the majority of the work rather than risk the carrying sound a revving engine made. Ridiculous in Leif's opinion; while quiet, just the running Chevrolet put out enough sound to alert nearby listeners.

After the last sound had faded, he waited another five minutes, listening. A distant frog persisted in its call, defiant of the cool night, but no man-made echo could be heard.

Leif rose to his knees, keeping an ear cocked towards the road. Walking at a slow pace did nothing for his nerves, but the silence assuaged that pain.

At his side, Eugene stiffened, looking into the trees.

'Company,' Leif touched the safety. It made a quiet metallic sound as it went live. 'Little noises, thought I heard something.'

In all likelihood it was one of the liminal folk. Their need to keep tabs on him was annoying. 'More than annoying. Infuriating. I've been fine on my own for years. Don't need a nanny.'

Not hearing the noise again, Leif eased the safety back in place, and exercised his heels.

Eugene bounded at his side, for once not acting his usual carefree manner. Leif admired that about his dogs, cattle too if he thought about it. They tended to read body language much better than humans, sometimes to the point of reacting before he spoke.

'Do these liminals have that too?' he wondered. 'Ro's been pretty good at listening, especially when I'm not talking. Maybe I should look into that. Care and Feeding of Centaurs or something. Next edition, Elvish Upkeep and their Dryad Sidekicks. Hah.'

Eugene made a soft whine, bringing his attention back. They were approaching a good clip now, over halfway back from the house.

Thoughts spun a slow dance through Leif's mind. 'Ten to fifteen head, she said. Cattle rustlers, probably. But from where? Wait, Earl's? Nobody been there for a couple weeks, a few extra head in the pastures wouldn't be too noticeable. But I've checked and re-checked. No different brands, no extras. Unless they're meaning to take his cattle, it has to be something else.'

It took three more strides before another thought slammed home. 'Wait,' he came to a full stop, Eugene frozen at his side. 'Brunhilda's farmer's daughter. She'd use 'head' to describe any kind of livestock. Sheep. Chickens. People.'

A low fire smoldered in his chest. 'If she's human traffickin', there won't be enough left to bury.'


A large tent had been set up in the treeline near the truck. Unlike most temporary structures, this one had a zippered flap nearly seven feet high, and walls stretching upwards almost double that. The whole thing was made of camouflage material, cunning stuff that blended in with the background. Leif saw it only because of its current position, a flat wall illuminated by an interior light. No stand of trees shone like that.

As he strolled closer, a triangle of light brightened on the tent. A tall figure cast a dark shadow dozens of feet into the night, a woman over six feet tall, dark against the background.

Leif stopped, hand on the stock of his rifle. "Hello the camp."

The figure moved out. "Leif? Is that you milord?"

"Ro'?" he moved into the light. "What're you doing out here?"

She shrugged, spilling hair off her shoulders. "My duty, milord. I have ensured the orchards are being harvested, and we are collaborating with the elves to provide bulk hauling duty. There is truly an excess of deer in this land, not so many as I have seen on the East Coast, still a surfeit nonetheless. But how are you, milord? You seem … tense."

Leif hesitated. "Going to have to set up a posse. Cattle rustlers tomorrow night."

The raven-haired centauride's entire posture changed. She stood taller, muscles bulging. "'tis true milord? I shall summon a guard. We – oh. No. The rules …."

"Yeah," he took a chance, stepping close enough to pat the tall being's shoulder. "Thanks."

Even the darkness couldn't hide the fierce blush heating up her face. Every muscle felt tense at his touch, but she did not move. "Of-of-of course, milord. Bu-but what will you do?"

Leif shifted away. He'd been around enough horses to know when his presence made them nervous, and what was a centauride but a human with horse-like traits? "Up at dawn. Ride around, get a posse together. Have to skip the Olsen's. Brunhilda was there."

"Who?" she tossed her hair back over her shoulder, eyes narrowed. "This woman dares steal from you?"

"Dunno," he shrugged. "Wasn't clear."

"I shall tell Agent Wesson," the centauride stated. She pulled out a large cell phone, from a place Leif did not permit himself to stare. "Criminal activities is well within his purview."

He snorted. "Sure. Then I'll wake up some morning to find a goon squad in my basement. Maybe those sirens from Homer, in bikinis. Maybe they'll turn the cellar into a swimming pool!"

The stillness following made him realize how loud he must have been shouting. Shame spread outwards, starting from his heart. Yes anger was a valid emotion, but of all the people deserving his ire, Roanette was among those least deserving. "Sorry. Lost my head there."

When he looked up, the centauride was – smiling? There were wet spots on her cheeks, which meant tears. Or rain, but he could see stars. "… Ro'?"

She shook her head. "No, it is … 'tis quite all right milord. I am honored you trust me so. I do not believe I have seen you lose control since we have first met."

He was struck speechless. Was she – thanking him for losing his temper? Granted the woman had been understanding in the past, but this was borderline insanity. "You're serious."

"Oh most definitely," she nodded with vigor. "I hope you will feel more comfortable with me in the future, but this I will take for now. May I call Agent Wesson? You will of course have jurisdiction over the operation, the contract ensures this, I will verify it myself."

Leif just nodded dumbly, an action the woman took as given, vanishing into the depths of her tent. For his part, Leif spent a few moments – hours? Days? Time felt odd when emotions were involved. Eventually he shook himself back to alertness. The woman was strange, no doubt about it, very strange. But … it was a strangeness he could get used to, perhaps. Maybe she'd be a good worker, heavens knew she understood horse-work like no other he'd ever encountered.

But that was food for thought at a later point. For now, he needed sleep. The moon's ghostly bulk was long gone, and he needed sleep.

He seized a number of horse blankets from the pickup cab. Ignoring the conversation sounds emanating from the illuminated tent, he stuck to his feet, following the dirt road. It lead him back to the combine, its silent frame still against the gentle ministrations of a cool breeze. He'd parked it with slumber in mind, beside a hay bale a good six feet tall and just as wide. Before laying down, he cast a narrow glance around the field.

"I would count it a favor," he spoke in a clear voice, stern without anger. "If I could at least sleep without being watched?"

Nothing responded to his words.

Sighing, Leif spread the first blanked on the ground, the tough fabric a poor mattress, but the springy grass making up for such deficiencies with admirable efficiency. His hat landed beside the blanket, worn sides still proud and tall. Like himself, he supposed. Tired, worn out, but more than capable.

Done with philosophy for the night, Leif set his mental clock as all good hunters could. He wrapped himself in a second blanket. The breeze ceased reaching his clothing, the blanket insulating his body heat. Enjoying the moment, Leif settled on the first blanket, reached out to tip his hat over his eyes, and relaxed. The moment only became better when Eugene settled by his side, sharing what heat he put out with Leif's own. The next day might bring trouble, but the present was pretty close to perfect.