Leif returned to his home shortly after the sun reached its zenith, whistling a little tune. His pickup swayed on the gravel road, creaking as aged shock-absorbers scrambled to compensate. Finishing the turn, he felt an overpowering urge to flee at the sight of a pure black SUV sitting in his driveway. Instead he drove with care, parking the venerable cargo-hauler under the trees before getting out. He stretched, arching backwards towards the sky, noting the cloud-cover as he did. Partly sunny skies coated the dome, promising fuller cover at night. He smiled.

His dogs trotted around the side of the house, yipping a friendly greeting. Scheherazade and Dunyazade only paused before returning around the corner after seeing him.

He followed them, avoiding the front door. To his surprise, Roanette was standing in the back, holding the wood ax in both hands. As Leif watched, she pulled the tool back over her head, its metal back coming within an inch of her own, before bringing it down in a swift arc. It bit deep into a thick log standing upright before her, the blade stopping deep in the wood.

"Arrrggghh!" her frustration boiled over. One hoof kicked the log, knocking it free of the ax. The force of the blow sent it back into another log, completing the split by accident. "How does he make it look so easy?"

Discretion was the better part of valor, Leif decided. A quiet exit would spare the horse-woman's dignity. Unfortunately, his retreat was spoiled by Eugene's welcoming bark – delayed by what tomfoolery went on in that animal's mind.

"Oh, milord!" Roanette looked at the ax, then at the shards of wood scattered across the yard. "This isn't what it looks like! Um, maybe just a little. I'm not destroying anything!"

Leif took in the pile of odd-shaped chunks of wood forming an uneven pile. Loose bits more suitable for kindling spread across the ground, larger slabs rested in a neat pile. He shrugged. "No problem. Got plenty of wood. Need help?"

"I am fine," Roanette started, but she paused, thoughts running visible across her face. "Well. Perhaps you could instruct me? I am not used to this."

He gauged the sky, checking for the white circle of the sun glaring through the layer of clouds. "Got time. Need to set up coffee and some grub for late afternoon though."

"Of course! I have already prepared some trays, and Aredhel is ensuring a supply of coffee is available," the centauride offered the ax handle, looking timid.

"Right." Leif moved forwards. He selected log, cylindrical and flat-sided, and nodded. "Right. Watch."

He set the log on end, and took a step back. Holding the ax by the heavy end, he spun a small circle, checking for obstructions. Finding none, he seized the haft with both hands, drawing it up with one hand near the end, the other close to the head. Flexing the long muscles in his back, then drawing the rest taut brought the blade in a swift arc, splitting the log into two even pieces.

"Let the axe do the work," he set a new log in place. The long hickory handle extended behind him as he took a different stance. The blade whirled up and over to split the target once more. "Slide your main hand down, use your off-hand as a pivot. Just takes practice."

"I see," the large centauride edged closer. "Could you perhaps, guide me?"

Leif handed her the axe once more. "Um … yah …?"

Roanette grasped the handle, clutching its length in an awkward double-handed grasp. She gave him a hopeful look. "Like this?"

He'd just started to reposition her grip when the back door opened. The slim form of an elf exited, looking towards the horizon before coming around to see the two. The pointed ears and blonde hair rendered identification simple, although the expression seemed alien on her graceful features. "Ah, there you are! Mistress Roanette, if you are quite finished? Lord Larsen is expecting guests, and I simply must show him our progress."

Roanette stiffened; Leif could feel it in her muscles, quivering under his rough calluses. Surprising, given he was holding her lower arms, nowhere near the arteries. But she just gave a sweet smile. "Of course not Aredhel. Do you require assistance …?"

"No no," the elf smiled back. "You keep on, I mustn't interrupt the firewood procurement. Milord?"

Leif had the distinct impression that some form of byplay eluded his notice. He considered the two women, evaluating their body-language in the same way he'd watch a new heifer before entering the pen. There was tension between the two, not as strong as the last time he'd seen them together, but still present. That made sense; new herds were always suspicious when first introduced, their alphas bickered over position until things settled down. It would happen eventually.

"The specialists will be here soon," Aredhel added. "Miss Roanette, if you could ensure there are no … issues, once they have arrived?"

"Of course," the sable-haired centauride still hadn't relaxed. "I hope your efforts are going well?"

Leif decided to interrupt whatever contest the two were engaging. "Sorry, Ro'," he took a squint at the axe blade. "Looks like the blade could be sharper. I'll do it later. Keep up the good work," without thinking he slapped her withers. She jerked, hind-legs bunching up before relaxing. Had he angered her? It was an unconscious move – which he now regretted.

A blush spread across her face, recently acquired freckles fading into the russet coloration. "Oh. Um. Thank you, Leif, – milord! I mean, Milord Leifson. Larsen! Oh … kill me now …."

Lacking options, Leif chuckled, sparing a friendly grin in her direction, hoping it betrayed no concern. Rapid escape seemed the only solution now.

Inside the ranch-style home the air smelled like a bakery. The ever-present scent of apples remained, but modified by the spicy odors of cumin, some pepper he didn't recall purchasing, and coffee. The last was a common scent in his home, indeed, almost every farmer in the state knew the aromatic odor. This made the strong, plain beverage he favored seem weak by the smell alone, like a steel scythe in the hands of a man used to simple galvanized iron. He could feel the hairs inside his nose prickling.

"Again, welcome home milord," Aredhel gave a brief curtsy. "There are pastries set for repast, and the espresso is percolating. Agent Wesson is awaiting your leisure in the drawing room, do you have any requests?"

Leif examined his home, going over each detail with an eagle-eye. "Any eavesdropping doo-dads?"

The elf's eyebrows rose, then fell. "Not to my knowledge, milord. I could arrange a sweep for sabotage units, if you wish?"

"Nah," his cultural background turned the simple word into a guttural dismissal. "Can do it myself later."

Taking care to not touch the expensive-looking clothes she wore, Leif moved past the shorter woman and made his way to the trophy room. It was one of his favorite rooms in the house, filled with the remnants of earlier generations mixed with those of the current. Heads of antelope hung on the wall, horns from a massive bison making contrast with their pale fur. The antlers of a moose, nearly seven feet wide, had a place of honor over a fireplace's mantlepiece. Pictures stood at irregular intervals between laden bookcases, images of first hunts, grandparents and a prize bull, and at the center of the room, a family portrait. The picture was more of a work of art, showing four generations of Larsens all in the same frame, cousins and children near the front separated by family if you knew how to look.

A thin figure stood looking up at the masterpiece, arms clasped behind his back. Wesson turned as Leif entered the room. "Mister Larsen."

It was a cool greeting, expressing neither joy nor sadness. Leif could respect that. "Wesson."

The other man turned back to the mantelpiece. "I was surprised to hear your request for assistance, given our last exchange."

Leif felt one eyebrow rise. When had he asked for help … unless Roanette's request had been … phrased … that … way.

'Blast.' Either he threw her under the bus for trying to help, or pretended the whole concept was his idea. Neither idea was palatable. Instead of answering, he grunted, and moved to the gun cabinet he'd used a week prior. It opened with ease, presenting its contents for perusal.

"Cattle rustlers." Wesson still didn't look at him. "Roanette was insistent you needed us to come out here and help you with them."

A long rifle's polished stock slipped across Leif's skin like silk, blending into black metal. He passed over the hunting rifle with regret, reaching deeper into the cabinet for something less elegant, but more practical given the situation. This time his hand withdrew a Lee-Enfield, its worn patina still smooth but proof of long service. If one knew where to look, the designation once given it in its creation was visible, stamped into its very essence physically and otherwise.

"What … is that?" Wesson couldn't hide his curiosity.

Leif pulled back the bolt action, peering down the barrel before closing it with a satisfying click. "Lee-Enfield, Number Four, Mark One. Grandpa Larsen brought back one after his tour in France. Still have his Em-One somewhere." His hand dipped back into the cabinet, returning with several magazines, each loaded with long rounds. "Three-oh-three caliber, zeroed at three hundred yards. Ten shots to the mag, one-hundred and seventy grain to the bullet."

He set it down on a nearby table, steadying it for a moment before returning to the cabinet again. This time he reached lower, withdrawing a revolver. Its dull steel had an oiled look, leaving a faint residue on his fingers. Leif frowned. "Old Peacemaker, forty-five. Maybe fifty yards if I practiced." He hefted the handgun's weight in one hand, frowning. Shaking his head, he put it back. "Not good enough with it."

Wesson's eyebrows were climbing. "You have a full arsenal in this house, don't you?"

"Eh," Leif selected a sleek-appearing handgun, pulling back the slide to see inside. "Huh, nine-teen eleven; Aiden's, I think. Big family, loved hunting. What were we going to collect. Playing cards?" a chuckle made his shoulders shake. "Can't see one of those stopping a coyote. Or a rustler."

"Yes … these rustlers." Wesson's voice returned to the neutral tones from before. "May I ask why you believe they are a credible threat?"

Laying the sidearm on the table next to the rifle, Leif started withdrawing small packages of bullets. A filled magazine, lead gleaming through the cracks stood on end, soon joined by a pair of twin companions. "Don't for sure. Talked to a few neighbors, have a posse gettin' ready to roll."

"Oh?" the city man quirked a smile. "Then my associates are unneeded?"

Leif leveled his gaze on the man. "Posse'll be sitting at their homes, guns loaded and watching for fireworks. If anything happens, they call me. The centaurs and elves and such stay hidden. You and your crew, with me."

A moment of silence punctuated his sentence, sending the rancher back to work. Clicks of metal on wood continued as he found another rifle, this one shorter but no-less lethal. Leif checked it over, then leaned it against the table, stock on the floor. This time he found new shells, shoving longer rounds into place. Its steady repetition created a rhythmic pattern, soothing to some, bringing fear to others. He didn't care.

"So. Tonight." Wesson withdrew to the mantelpiece itself. "I have two squads on their way right now, undercover. And yes, I mean undercover, a few pickups and a van. They'll be arriving on the far side of your property within an hour. A third squad is in place at the new property you just bought, establishing a perimeter. Thoughts?"

Leif closed the gun safe, heavy metal doors expressing a resounding crash. "I asked Roanette to send scouts. Elves too. Rustlers'll probably be out by the Zakapenko's; nobody home. Lotta cattle. Pull in, cut out a few beeves, drive away. Fifteen head'll be easy to shuffle somewhere else, Kansas maybe. Nebraska more'n likely." He pushed a magazine down into the Lee-Enfield, ratcheting the piece in place. "As grandpa used to say, this is nothing more than Darwinism in action. Combat Accelerated Darwinism. They want my stuff, they'll have to take it from my cold, stiff fingers."

"I can believe it," Wesson remarked drily. "Any plans on including liminal support?"

He shrugged. "Scouts, like I said. Figger Ro'll want to come along. Coordinate her scouts. Not sure about Aredhel. Talk to her later. Need a shower."

"Are you certain?" Wesson gave him a strange look. "Remember what I said about actions …" he stopped. "Never mind. I'm sure you know what you're doing."

Suspicious, Leif gave him another searching look. The man seemed candid, but who could tell these days? At the least, it was the man's job to defend his charges, and there didn't seem to be any attempts for bringing people directly into his home. Grudging, but definite, Leif gave him a nod, and left.

Cold water turned hot, a steaming sensation that he relished after days in the fields. He stood under the nozzle for ten minutes, letting the pounding water soothe aching muscles. Enjoying the simple pleasures in life made the rest of it worth living. Hot apple pie did it too, especially if vanilla ice cream was involved. But hot water ranked up there among the finer pleasures of life.

After showering, Leif took a nap. Long hours in the field meant tiring times; he'd be better-able to concentrate if rested. This was going to be a long night.


Later afternoon came with a deafening crash. Leif came awake in a flash, sliding off the bed into a crouch. A hickory walking stick came to his hand, ready for use.

"I told you to look out for the coffee table!" a hissed whisper came down the hallway.

Leif's face darkened. But the voice sounded familiar ….

"Sorry! I said I was sorry!" a second voice hissed back. "Did I break anything?"

Fingers tightened on hickory. "Nah, just messed up the book pile – uh oh."

The sound of heavy books falling to a hardwood floor rumbled from the distant room. Frantic noises, like rubber tires and a fast-moving individual wearing them, interrupted the cascading sound. Additional thumps and a muffled curse followed, and after a few seconds, a very distinctive ringing crash of broken glass and the unmistakable rolling ka-ring-ing-ing gifted by a round object doing its best to imitate a Euler's Disk. Dead silence ensued, fittingly broken by a single voice.

"Uh-oh."

Leif stopped too, listening.

"That was probably some heirloom going back to the Ming dynasty! Boss is gonna rip your head off!" the hissing voice returned. "I told you to be careful! When the Boss is asleep, you – ah great Googly Moogly …."

He blinked. That wasn't what thieves would say. In addition, think what he might about Wesson, the man was armed and probably a good shot. A quick look at the clock showed five hours had passed, enough for … quite a lot to have happened.

Straightening, he walked towards the sound, which seemed to come from the front room, a living room for all intents and purposes. The scent of coffee and fresh pastries came clear through the air, wafting a delicate fusion of caloric energy into his nose. There was so much caffeine in the smell alone that he felt awake just by inhaling it.

The living room was just as he'd left it, minus an irritating federal agent, plus a man in a wheelchair, a mess on the floor, and an old-timer standing as far as he could from the entire situation trying to look innocent.

Leif checked the floor first; a gaudy vase someone had left behind lay in pieces, the metal tray its water-filled contents rested upon still shaking on the floor. Several volumes squatted beside the pile of misbegotten ceramic, pages spread open, crumpled under the pressure of their brethren. Then he looked up at the visitors.

"Earl? You're here?"

The wheelchair-bound man smiled the widest grin Leif had seen in years. "Uh, Boss! What a surprise? Got discharged today, wanted to see how things were going. Heard about your little dust-up coming down and picked up Gramps. Sweet little espresso machine you got there, when did you get it? Looks brand new!"

"Ah. Right." Leif looked up again. "Gramps?"

The old man hugged a massive bit of weaponry an older generation had deemed a rifle. Modern definitions believed something of its general size and powder requirements better defined as artillery, but the man was stubborn, old-fashioned, and a very good shot. "Youngin'. Heard ya got a bit of a pest problem."

"Aye," Leif checked out the back window through the corner of his eye. No centaurs or elves were visible, the axe embedded in the chopping block. "You willin' to help, Gramps?"

The older man was missing a few teeth, but his smile was that of a confident predator. "Brought my best gun, Ol' Reliable," his hand patted the weapon fondly. "Just set me up and I'll plug 'em good."

"And their neighbors, and the hill behind the neighbors," Earl continued. "Plus whatever those government types got locked in the silos behind the hill behind the neighbors. What is it, a Sharps?"

"Fifty-ninety, Sharps. Hand-loaded the cartridges meself." Gramps patted the stock again. "Just you keep your horse women out o' the way, boy. I ain't going to shoot 'em, but my eyes aren't as good as they used to be you know."

Leif stopped, focusing on the old man. "I beg your pardon?"

"Nothin', I ain't seen nothin'." Gramps set his weapon down, butt first. The barrel's weight made the coffee table shift. "Just remember: I've been living in these parts over ninety years, boy. I've seen a whole lot, and some folk just ain't as good at hiding as they think they are. Now I'm gonna get me some of that kuchen. Old Country kuchen ain't something to be missed."

Leif watched the wizened older man take small steps, advancing to the kitchen. For such an old man he moved fast, and with a self-assurance only long experience could grant. Then he turned back to Earl. "You feeling alright Earl?"

The wheelchair-bound man shrugged. "I'm feelin' better now that I'm out and doing something. Stuck in that hospital … it was insane, Leif. I haven't been so bored in my life."

"Aye," Leif checked the corners. No feet stuck out from under the drapes, and the closets were firmly shut. Where had the liminals hidden themselves? He made his way towards the kitchen. "Been getting ready to head out East I suppose? Unless you're serious about taking me up on that offer."

The wheels squeaked behind. "Well … about that. I've been chatting with Alynette. Remember her? She says you've hired her sister to oversee things with that big Federal project going down."

Leif stopped. "Yeah … what about her?"

"Well," Earl pulled alongside and folded his hands. "After you bought the ranch, she said you were thinking of using it for her … ah … I'm not sure I can pronounce it. But her group while they get accustomed to the States. Some kind of big visitation program going on? I was hoping you could tell me more about it. We've talked on the phone every day since you first started visiting, thanks for giving her my number by the way."

He'd done no such thing. This had to be a prank. But when he looked at Earl, the guileless man's face held no hint of subterfuge. "Earl," he started slowly. "Do you know right where Aly's from?"

"Somewhere in Germany, I think." Earl responded cheerfully. "I know what she looks like, I saw her once when the window was down. But is she as pretty as she sounds?"

Groaning was the only response Leif could make. He shook his head and continued into the kitchen. A full table of high-calorie cookery met his gaze. Sausages looped around a large plate of what had to be the thickest pudding he'd ever seen. Coffee cake, three plates of it, sat by a colony of coffee pots. He could see cinnamon rolls, the kind Roanette made, resting on one side next to an apple kuchen, two pieces of which were missing, located soon by looking sideways at Gramp's plate. He'd already consumed one and was halfway through the second.

The old man spotted Leif and swallowed hard. "Good woman. Haven't had kuchen this good since Germany. Who was it, the pointy-eared lady or the black haired one?"

Leif turned around and left the room, seeking a flat wall with a supporting beam against which he could manually reboot his brain. But before the ritual could start, the screech of brakes came through the open front door.

This time Wesson knocked before entering, granting him a grudging point from Leif's perspective.

"Mister Larsen?" he stepped inside. An awkward look was on his face, a patent leather shoe nervously toeing a crack in the floor. The agent settled. "Now that you're showered, rested and in your right mind, may I ask where you've been the past three days? I've … I've been trying to get in touch with you."

The rancher gave the smallest of shrugs. "Workin'."

"Yes, but where? The centaurs wouldn't let me enter past the first hundred yards, and the elves were even worse! You didn't sleep at that smaller house, or the woods house …." The man stopped at Leif's furious glare. "Long-range surveillance only, I promise. Telescopes and drones. All the bugs have been removed from your property, I promise."

"Right." Leif vowed to go over the internal structure of his home with a fine-toothed comb as soon as there was time.

"What if there had been an emergency? What if you had been injured? This entire endeavor rests on your well-being."

Annoyance tingled along his spine, but self-control won the day. "Had work to do. Harvested over three hundred acres. Good crop too."

The agent rubbed his forehead as if warding off a headache. "Mister Larsen, you are aware that I could make one phone call and acquire an army of farmhands to do this for you? Granted that might be a little excessive, but I could hire enough workers to clear every single field within a few days."

"Good for you," Leif could smell the coffee, it called to him. "'Ro' knew where I was. Others too. Had eyes on me all the time. Annoying."

"Quite," Wesson's voice was dry. "And are you going to tell me you slept outside for three days and nights?"

One shoulder rose and fell. "Napped a few hours. Worked the rest. Next?"

A disbelieving look crossed the agent's face, but he kept the sense to not question it. "Well then. In response to your call, thank you for that by the way, I know it must have been tough, the first squad is here. Are – ah – you ready to set out?"

Leif rolled his eyes. "Bring 'em inside. Chow is in the kitchen. Might as well get 'em watered and fed before we go on the stakeout."

Wesson's eyebrows rose. "That is … kind of you Mister Larsen." He took a few steps deeper into the house and glanced into the kitchen. "Who's the old man? And is that your neighbor?"

"Yep." Leif selected a gun belt from the coat rack, securing it around his waist. It was leather, and worn, used for carrying farming implements in better times. "Gramps already knows, and Earl is apparently talking to Miss Alynette daily. Don't think he knows she's … what she is though. Up to you mister government man."

A heartfelt groan emanated from his guest. Combined with slumped shoulders and a bent head, it seemed to indicate heartfelt loss. Leif took a moment to consider. As host, was it not his responsibility to guide his charges' integration to humanity? In a month the entire secrecy aspect would be nullified, granting naturalized citizenship to the few on his ranch. Would it not behoove him to introduce these new citizens as competent, capable personnel? Especially if he were to hire Earl as they'd been discussing off and on.

Another sigh built up from his boots. Then a thought struck; the agent was a professional.

Most of the time.

If one squinted, shaded their eyes and had rose-tinted glasses.

'Enough. Can't control him, but you can control yourself. Your ranch, your people.' He felt the sensation of another large decision coming down again. 'No escapin' it. Gotta do it.'

"Wesson," he took the Colt from off the table, checked its safety, and slid it into the holster. "Just … don't get a heart attack."

The other man straightened. It looked more like a swaying motion than a rising to alertness, but under the circumstances Leif would count it. The government man gave the kitchen a suspicious look, but spoke in a hushed voice. "This … is not protocol. I knew there was a troublesome chance of discovery beforehand, but, how did he know? And who gave Mister Zakapenko her number? It's a security leak I can't let go, we've been compromised. This is going to cause so much paperwork! My budget is going to go through the roof."

Leif paused, then put a gentle hand on the agent's shoulder, touching it with the same care one used on skittish colts. Words sometimes weren't needed. More people could talk less in his opinion, but sometimes silence was the only way to communicate. It was held there only for a moment, but such was the way things worked.

Boots, solid outdoor wear made of tooled leather thudded across the floorboards. Leif passed the kitchen, gave a nod to its occupants, and pushed the screen door open. Passing outside he scanned the yard.

Unlike small city plots, the ranch's yard was as spacious as the word once suggested. The wood pile delineated an intermediary border, starting at the north side of the house, and running west. It provided shelter when the winter blizzards hit, as well as an easy guide to the barn. Even in white-out blizzard conditions, a farmer could leave the house, walk along the wood, and reach the paddock fence not too far from there. Leif followed that line, turning to follow the fence to the barn, and inside. He needed to heave open the front door, a clue since he'd left the door open days earlier.

"Ro'?" he stopped well inside, facing away from the front doors. In the rear, there were a pair of sliding doors hanging open, another hint. He raised his voice, not quite to the loudest capacity, but enough to exit the solid wooden structure's walls. "You here?"

Clip-clopping of hooves resonated against dust and gravel. Moments later, the tall figure of the centauride occluded the open doors on the far side. "Milord?"

Leif relaxed. "Ro'. Saw it?"

"Of course," the centauride walked closer. She wore a heavy sweater in concession to the weather, and a long woolen covering for her more equine half. He'd noticed that even the most horse-like of centaurs lacked the true build of beasts, but it was still close enough to outmass every human he'd ever met. Her dark hair looked windblown, and a light sheen was on her forehead, as if she'd been running. "I had no time to both warn you, and withdrew through the back. Aredhel managed to retreat with me, and is now updating her clan."

"Good," he paused wondering how to break the news. Uncertainty – an unfamiliar sensation – tugged at something he couldn't describe. "Ro', … um …."

"Yes?" she waited, hands folded at the waist.

Leif shook off the mental cobwebs. "Gramps knows about you. Saw something sometime. And Earl … he's really falling for your sister. Wanted to talk with you before I said anything."

Her ears flicked forwards, pointed directly at Leif. "I … see. This is earlier than we had expected. Do you mean to reveal our presence so soon?"

"No!" he held up his hands. "No, I just … I don't know. Don't feel right not telling Earl. And Gramps said he's not really interested in anything."

Warmth bloomed from his shoulder, where Roanette's hand clasped it. "Milord. Leif. I trust you. I've trusted you since the day I watched you face a stampede for your friend, the man in whom my sister is very interested. My trust grew when you treated me like an equal, like a partner despite your desires and customs to working alone. If you believe showing ourselves is a good idea, I will trust your judgement in this as well."

The young rancher stared at her shining eyes, noting how her long fingers twined around each other nervously. Then he closed his eyes and sighed. "Ro', that's … flattering. And pretty to hear. But it doesn't tell me what you want."

Roanette settled herself. "But it does. This ranch is your domain. My people are here to establish a safe haven, true, but also to learn how to interact with humans once more. Your judgement –"

"I know what you said, damn it!" Leif bit back his anger. Hurting a young lady wasn't in either of their best interests. His mind sought a solution, and stumbled upon an idea. "Look. One thing we have running in America is Fair Play. Everyone plays by the same set of rules, everyone has a fair shot at the top. I know the rules, you don't. I can't make decisions for you, you won't learn anything that way. Tell me what you want, and I can tell you if it's possible."

He stalked forwards a pace, getting good and close to make sure his point drove home. She was frozen in place, watching him like a rabbit noticing a coyote. "Ro'. Tell me what you want."

Her ears were pricked forwards, taking in everything. Her eyes were suspiciously bright now. "Wha-ha? What I want?"

Alarm bells began ringing in Leif's head. He eased towards one side, where the haymow's access ladder stood. Among all the skills he'd seen centaurs demonstrate, there was a distinct lack in climbing, and the ladder stood a few scant feet away. He kept his voice low and soothing, like dealing with an anxious colt. Filly in this case, he corrected himself. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilating wider at each step.

"Yah," he tried to relax, letting a smile come up through unconscious effort. "What do you want? It's your decision too, y'know."

Her ears went still. "I … I … want …." Her voice went into a quiet burble, and she blushed, ducking her head behind the curtain of satin-black hair.

"Um," Leif paused, within reach of the ladder. Her words had started out normal, but then rushed into a vernacular he couldn't understand. "What?"

He could practically see the blush through her hair; it wasn't a complete barrier after all. But the roots of Roanette's ears were turning pink, expanding their coloration to their tips. "I said," she looked up, straight at him. The fiery blush hadn't faded. "I wish you would accept my offer."

Leif filed that under the strange things liminals said on occasion. Crazy Liminal Sayings, he'd call it.

"Let's try this again," Leif sat on one of the ladder's lower rungs. "You want something. I don't know what it is. I'm a simple man, please keep things simple for me?"

"Oh—veh – very well?" she straightened, her legs as well as her torso. It gave her a more distinguished look, reducing the impression of a highschool girl being confronted with an attractive instructor. "Lord Larsen, I hereby offer my services in personal transportation. You, and only you would be granted the privilege of riding me. I promise to keep your secrets, and bear your burdens as long as it is possible for me to do so. In return, I ask that you protect my people. Watch over them and guide their steps into this new era."

In the silence following her small speech, Leif tried to think. The logic was there, the words lay in readiness, but the actual thoughts themselves were reacting in the same fashion as a clubbed salmon: stunned, and in an unfamiliar environment.

His first urge was to use the hand grasping the ladder's side, and flee. There were no supply caches in the haymow, a paucity he'd correct later, but a sufficiently knowledgeable individual could escape through the eaves, out the side and … and … where would he go?

'This is my home,' his thoughts began their torpid return. 'Where could I go? A fine mess you got yourself into. How would things have changed if you just held your ground that first day and threw Wesson off your land? How much easier?'

A low whickering drew his attention. Morgan, the injured gelding taking up residence in one of Leif's stalls, was looking over the side of the stall, inhaling great gusts of air.

'He's alive, for one thing. Woulda died without the centaurs. Without Roanette.' A counterargument ran swift interception. 'Wouldn't have been in that position if Earl weren't showing off for the same centaurs – but I can't say it wouldn't have happened anyway. Earl's smart like that.'

He closed his eyes. 'Blow it all for a game of soldiers. I'm not cut out for what she wants. I'm a farmer. A loner. I hate company, and I hate having my decisions made for me.'

Unbidden his thoughts turned to the days he'd spent out in the fields. Of weeks where every day the centaurides had 'somehow' made too much lunch for themselves and hunted him down to give the excess. Leif considered the hard work they'd demonstrated, picking apples and storing them in careful barrels, like gems for future use. Even the elves were trying to be useful, managing the wildlife, overseeing their more reclusive dryad cousins. But they hadn't pushed, they'd respected his boundaries.

Leif exhaled, like the horse a few steps over. 'Can't really back out now, can I? I let them in. My fault. Only one to blame is me, by Jiminy.'

"Three things," he kept his eyes closed. "First, I ain't a leader. Never have been, never will. You know that, right?"

The centauride standing before him said nothing, watching carefully.

With a sigh he made a very conscious decision to release the ladder's edge, dropping both hands into his lap. Roanette relaxed as he did so; startling him for a moment. A heartbeat later he scolded himself; she could read the room as well as he could, an trait he should've expected. "Second thing. Wesson told me that riding a centaur was a big insult. So I won't be doing that for a while. Cultural things, I guess."

An amused look crossed her face, but she remained silent. Leif appreciated that.

"Third thing," rising put a strain on his lower back after the long week, but the next part had to be said standing. "We'll work on this together. I mean together. No master, no servant. If we're going to do this, we share the load. Blame and praise both. Agreed?"

Roanette looked down at his outstretched hand, then back up before looking down once more. A massive grin spread across her face. She took his hand, pumping it vigorously. "Agreed."

Leif almost wilted in relief, and smiled back. He didn't even protest when she swept him into a massive hug again, pulling him tight against her chest once more. Some things he could fight; an enthusiastic centauride? Maybe another time. For now, maybe they'd finally get out on the trail. They'd wasted enough time … but a few more minutes wouldn't hurt anything either. For the first time he reciprocated, stretching his arms around the centauride's back, returning the gesture.

The overpowered response, pulling him up off his feet into soft darkness made him black out. Again.