Morning came with all the subtlety of a brick through plate glass. Bright sunshine poured through Leif's window, turning closed eyelids into a reddish-pink test of his dedication. Slumber was important, but annoyance trumped that. Winter morning came early, Daylight Savings made it even earlier, and a farmer's schedule made acknowledging the clock's face a mere professional courtesy at best. Slumber, that sweetest commodity, was a valuable resource for anyone … if they could manage to find it.

With a small growl he gave up trying.

Dressed and in his right mind, Leif opened his bedroom door; he must've been too tired to remember closing it the prior night. Electing to skip a morning shower seemed logical, he'd had one less than eight hours before, so he started his way towards the laundry room. A new day started out well when it had clean undershirts to go with it. He intended to have many good days in the future week.

Situational awareness, honed by decades of living in a realm where inattention meant lost limbs, triggered the lizard portion of his hindbrain. An oncoming aggressor, high and to the right, arrowed in for his head.

"Criminently!" Leif dove for the floor, sliding towards the laundry closet. The attacker's buzzing grew louder overhead, ominous as he scrambled –

'Buzzing?'

As his fingers closed around the handle of an awkward but weighty Tide bottle, Leif chanced a look over one shoulder.

Hovering near the ceiling, a miniature drone floated. Eight rotors hummed like an organized hornet swarm, adjusting its position on a constant basis. Something tiny, round, and reflective tilted his direction; a tiny image of a downed farmer visible in its glass lens.

He gave it a dirty look. "I'm gonna give whoever's driving that thing five minutes to convince me not to chuck this here detergent."

The drone dipped, following him as he got up, and explored the most recent stitches with one hand – over the fabric of his pants. Satisfied, Leif grunted, and pulled out the damp, wrinkled clothing from the washer. It was delivered into the dryer, a boring but necessary, much like the majority of the chores in life.

Two minutes later, the next load in the washing machine, an almighty crash came from the direction of the back door.

'Amazing what you can get used too,' Leif marveled how his hands hadn't dropped a single item at the noise. 'Or is it re-learning old habits? Gustav used to be a little clumsy.'

Wandering feet took him in the direction of the sound, where excited babbling and the enthusiastic groaning of something made of metal grew louder.

"I'm sorry! If you could just –"

"No, my fault. I'll, wait. No, hang on –"

"It's okay, you'll be fine. Don't worry, we're okay!"

"Who are you trying to convince?"

Leif snagged the wooden cane he'd left by the bathroom. Its hard tip rapped against the floor in a steady, rhythmic pattern. The voices stilled at his approach, save for a breathless squeak he was certain – for the most part – didn't emit from a male set of lungs. After the last few weeks he wasn't going to count it out of hand, however.

He came around the corner, letting the cane rap against the floor in an ominous pattern. The cane's tip thumped to a halt, planted between his feet, a stern expression on his face. The sight was well worth the little bit of showmanship.

Alynette, she of the red hair and devotion to his neighbor, stood in the doorway, stuck. Ahead of her, sprawled on the floor, was the object of her affections and Leif's current potential source of information. A wheelchair remained in the doorway, wedged between the centauride and wood older than Leif's grandparents. Large tires, designed for all terrain work, were stuck outside the doorway while the handles, her blouse, and some kind of satchel were tangled in some kind of mess defying common logic.

Leif looked down. He should've felt bad, or at least sympathetic. The man on his floor was looking back with a terrified expression, frozen in place. Most unbecoming for a man in a relationship with one of the most powerful liminals known to mankind, and old friend.

He cleared his throat, and gave a meaningful look at the hovering drone. A single raised eyebrow directed their attention back to the wheelchair, and the woman thereby.

"It's my fault!" Earl spoke up from the floor. "I wanted to see if – I mean, how it could-"

Alynette interrupted. "My lord, please forgive us! We did not intend to intrude on your privacy. It's a new mapping software, the –"

"All my fault," Earl burst in, louder than before. "I set it up, was looking for those truckers. You know, those traffickers?"

"And it was my fault for not setting this dwelling as a no-fly zone!" Alynette fired back, color starting to rise in her cheeks. "Don't you dare try to say otherwise Mister Zakapenko!"

A shocked look hinted at a far different normality of address, but Earl had been around stubborn farmers too much to submit. "Well I recall myself sitting in the chair, writing the program. I've lived here for a lot longer than you girl, and I know where things are and are not supposed to fly!"

Her shoulders went up, ears sweeping back. "Is that how you wish to continue, boy? I will remonstrate at the level to which –"

Leif cleared his throat. Instant silence filled the room. He waited until he was certain both their attention was on him, then hobbled over to the stricken human. "You all right there, Earl? Didn't break your head, did you?"

"Um, yeah. I'm good?" Earl eased back, tension leaving his body.

"Good. Good." Leif let the man sit on the floor for now, and turned to the trapped centauride. "Morning, Ms. Yidderman. You feeling all right there? No whiplash or nothin'?"

The woman squirmed, easing herself a little room away from the wheelchair's protruding handle in her forward abdominals although still wedged in place. "I am well, sir."

"Good." He nodded approval. "Glad to hear it."

He gave another long look at the wheelchair. It had seen better days, bent metal wrapped around the solid oak frame, the hand brake digging a divot into the door itself, twisted back around the tires in a way that prevented movement in any direction. He gave another slow headshake.

"I got some tinsnips in the utility drawer," he tapped his cane, deep in thought. "And some wirecutters. Might need a hacksaw. If you're sure you're good?"

"Of course, milord." Alynette hesitated. "Is … Earl well?"

The man in question snorted. "Had worse spills. I'm fine."

"Do him some good," Leif opined, moving towards the kitchen's myriad of drawer space. "Thinkn' you both might need to set too, calm your horses. Arguments can get a bit harsh. What was it you were talkin' about?"

Both started speaking at once, leaving a wry grin on his face. "Somethin' about spying on me, right?"

An equally fervent denial erupted, settling a smile on his face. "Good. So you're fighting about blame. Ain't no reason to fight. Plenty enough to go around. I'm not flying off the handle just because someone did something dang stupid. I know Earl. He does enough of that on his own."

This time the outraged denial was of a singular voice, low to the ground.

Leif gave them both a long stare. "if you two are figgerin' to take it for the long haul, better start practicin' your argifying now, how not to fight. Sunshine and roses for the Honeymoon ain't gonna cut it once you start seeing each other's warts."

"Um …" the centauride looked confused, but Earl had a grim look on his face.

"Come on," Leif hunched down. "Let's get you up to a chair, and then get your lady friend free."

If he'd expected sputtering, there was a distinct lack. There was almost a sense of pride shimmering off the pair, although a significant portion of the gravitas was ruined by one half lolling on the floor while the other hung partway through a door frame.

Leif hoisted the younger man like a sack of potatoes, depositing him on a kitchen chair – albeit with the same gentleness of a newborn calf. "Sit tight."

"Not like I can go anywhere," Earl grumped. He watched Leif wrestle the wheelchair out of the door frame, needing only a screwdriver and a pliers to coax it the rest of the way.

As soon as the way was clear, Alynette stepped daintily into the room, taking care to wipe her hooves on the doormat. "Thank you, Mister Larsen."

He grunted. "Leif. Friend of Earl's a friend of mine."

"Oh, she and I are definitely friends," Earl's eyebrows wiggled. "You know you set me up as a manager over at my place?"

While on paper it belonged to himself, Leif elected to not point that out. Earl Zakapenko had lived in that house for years before losing the use of his legs in a riding accident. It would be cruel to lose his home, too. Instead, he nodded.

"Well, in centaur culture, that makes me like a squire or duke or something. Her dad was a bit leery of just anybody stepping out with his daughter, but after you got me that job? Smiles and sunshine. By the way, how are you and Roanette getting on?" Earl quirked a teasing smile. "Aly here says Ro's your partner now?"

"Business partner." Leif moved over to the coffee machine. The absent centauride and elf were updating their respective parties, leaving him free to do his own tasks for a change. Elves and cat-people were roaming around, keeping him safe he supposed, but for now the place was his. "Nothing more, nothing less."

Earl tested one of his legs, smiling at the result. "She'd do a whole lot more if you let her."

"A crush." Leif picked up the hot brew, pouring a mug of coffee darker than pitch black night. "New place, new people, new experiences. She'll find someone better soon, once the Exchange opens up next week. Might even fall for one of the workers out there."

Alynette stamped a hind hoof. "You do her disservice. She cares for you a great deal."

"She's a good friend," Leif returned after taking a sip of the unsweetened beverage. The taste was relaxing. "Few enough good folk like her out there. But once the Exchange opens, she'll leave. They all will."

The centauride's eyebrows furrowed. "Why?"

Leif blinked. "What?"

"Why would she leave? She likes it here, likes you, and is the official liaison between you and the centaurs. After you made her a full partner, father delegated her as the supervisor for everything related to you – he's in Kansas right now arranging house-share programs. Why would she leave?"

For a few heartbeats, Leif didn't know what to say. After taking a deep breath, he still didn't know. "Red?"

Alynette shrugged, flipping her long hair over one shoulder. "The other parties will be here until reassigned, or you request their departure. Didn't you read the contract?"

"Not a lawyer," Leif felt the headache coming on again. "Wrote part of it, but … but …." He shook his head, there'd be time to think on it later. "Later. Right now, got work to do."

A soft buzz reminded him of the drone's continued presence. He glanced up at where it still hung in place, propellers a blur. "Drone's stay out, though. You'll take care of it. Gotta get a few head to town for butcherin'."

Then there was nothing but the back door, a quick whistle to summon the dogs, and a trip to the smaller ATV. He'd need to replace the Polaris's windshield, but with a balaclava, sunglasses and gloves, it would be more than manageable. Then he'd need to take a few cattle down to the butcher's; there'd be a lot of company in the future if he was any judge.


He stopped after reaching the Quonset. Surprise seemed to have exhausted its tricks, yet managed to deceive him once more.

The Polaris stood in full glory, gleaming fresh paint and polished windshield. Leif stared at it for a minute before grunting and continuing to the smaller vehicle. It didn't have quite the speed or carrying capacity of the big machine, but it did have a tighter turning radius, and was familiar to the cattle. Familiarity was key in animal husbandry; wear the same clothes, perform the same actions, and they'd grow used to routine. Complacent, accepting cattle were easier to work with than a scared group of paranoid animals weighing a quarter ton each.

He stopped outside the Quonset, taking in the atmosphere. The sky was open, clear until the highest atmospheric levels, only trace wisps of cirrus clouds drifting across its bowl-like appearance. A bird-like figure soared over the pastures a quarter mile distant, a reminder that the very fabric of human existence was changing.

'Changing back, maybe?' he looked down, thinking. 'Myths and legends. Back to life.'

Eugene, back at his side, growled agreement.

"Hey." Leif stooped down, ruffling his ears. "Good job. Taking care o' folks here. Good job, Eugene."

The dog's eyes danced in happiness as he repeated the action with Scheherazade. It was too late to connect the action with the deed they'd performed, but emphasizing his approval with their presence was never wrong.

Then he felt a familiar presence, and turned to look down at soulful, pleading eyes. They begged for patience and understanding, and nothing more than acceptance of their presence at his side.

"Dunya," he pitched his voice upward into a mellow tenor. "Don't ask, girl."

The Border collie's head tipped down, eyes still focused on him, ears flattened as if in apology. The faintest of whines escaped her muzzle.

"You need to take care of those pups," Leif crouched down, the better to stroke her fur. The animal leaned into his touch, heavier than before. "Don't want trouble, eh?"

Hopeful, the dog raised her head. Her tail began to wag just a little.

Leif folded. "Fine. But you're riding."

Dunyazade's entire body leaped up, bringing her close enough to lick his face. He shot to his feet, rubbing away the fluid. "Ach. 'nuff of that. Let's go."

A soft clearing of a feminine throat stopped him just as the key was about to twist in the ignition. He twisted in the seat to see a disapproving glare in a very feline-like form. He sighed. "Yes?"

Fanchon raised her chin. "You do not believe you are going to ride off into the open without at least a single escort, are you? After l'excitation of last night?"

Leif gestured at the three dogs surrounding him. They seemed conflicted, staring at this cat-like creature that nonetheless possessed the power of speech. All three heads were cocked at an angle, as if attempting to determine the rightful protocol – to herd, or not to herd. It seemed a difficult question.

She ignored their attention, an achievement that put a point in her favor. "Ah yes, I forgot. You have now taught your most constant companions to request help through various forms of media."

He chuckled. Once. "Point."

"Therefore," she drew herself up. "I will accompany you."

Leif pursed his lips, thinking it over. "You sure? Headed to town, to the butcher."

A slight widening of her pupils suggested surprise, but she just squared her shoulders. "Bon. I believe I am better suited to blending in than the ladies Yidderman or the lamia. Would you be amenable to giving me a few minutes to prepare?"

He shrugged. "Yah. An hour to load up."

"Wait until I get back!" The neko spun in place, darting towards the house.

Leif watched her bound away, tail lashing in what he'd interpret as a happy fashion. There were few cats on the ranch now, but there had once been many. Perhaps it was time to get a few mousers for the barn, there'd been some rodent activity in the feedboxes, he'd noticed. Poison would work too, or traps. But having localized predators caused far more disruption in the rodent population than crude traps or toxins.

Returning to work, Leif elected to forego the four-wheeler, and attached the trailer's haul chain to his pickup's tail hitch. It was always chain, never anything weaker, or possessing greater elasticity. There were once two neighbors that had used nylon rope to pull cargo, a father and son team.

"Remember them?" he murmured to Eugene. It was a stupid question – the dog hadn't been alive at that time. But the entire family remembered, the whole community remembered. "Rope broke, snapped back through the cab window, killed the dad. Day after the funeral, the son tried the same thing."

Eugene winced.

"Yeah. Double funerals that week." Leif directed a moment of commiserating thought towards the widowed mother, and resumed work. Cattle didn't load themselves after all.

He looked down at the canine trio. Then smiled.

The three cows selected for ending their life's journey had been quartered in the paddock by the nearest barn. As most ranchers in the area did, he'd selected the three with the worst traits, habits that were not desirable for the next generation. Breeding cattle had to consider the social aspects as well as genetic – one cow would teach their calf, and other cattle, all her tricks.

"Come on," he whistled a low-high pitch, sending the dogs tearing into the paddock. Three dogs for three cows was severe overkill, but they enjoyed the work. "Good. Good."

Two of the dogs froze in place, staring at the furthest cow. The bovine shied away from their predatory glare, trotting towards the trailer's open tail gate. Meanwhile the third dog circled around, getting between the cow and the paddock's open section, stopping to deliver a hunger-filled stare whenever the recalcitrant cattle began to shift in her direction.

Trading positions like elite commandoes, the Border collies flowed forwards, ushering the cattle into the trailer. All three cows moved inside at last, and Leif checked their position before closing the back door. "Good dogs. Good dogs."

The trio went berserk at the praise, prancing and racing small circles around him. He chuckled, fondling their ears when they got close enough, and limped back around.

Paddocks had gates wide enough to permit the entrance of even large machinery, double gates that swung inwards or outwards, creating a funnel when livestock needed guidance. In this case the gates had been opened outwards, creating a funnel into the trailer's back. Leif swung the near gate a little further, and pulled the pickup forwards a few feet, before walking back and closing the gates.

'Opening gates, closing gates. Sometimes it seems all I do is move doors around.' He wrapped the chain back in place, dropping a half-inch steel pin through the links to hold them in place. 'There. Back to the house, pick up Frenchy, and off we go.'

Driving a half-ton pickup with a multi-ton trailer slowed the truck's response. It extended the turning radius by a good forty feet – child's play. A decent trailer-pulling tractor needed near that, in poor conditions. He dedicated his mind away from the events surrounding his early days learning how to drive the lower geared monstrosities. 'Popping a wheelie out back the barnyard doesn't count.'

Parking outside the ranch house, he stepped outside without turning off the truck. Its engine hummed a cheerful basso, fading to a distant rumble as he reached the front porch.

Entering he found a felt-tip marker, scanned the grandfather clock's face, and recorded the planned destination and duration on a marker board. It hung behind the hat stand, visible to anyone leaving the building, a habit the family had acquired during many years of confused diligence.

Went to town. Back by Ten.

It was a simple message, covering the necessities. After thinking a moment, he added his initials to it, just in case someone else might be considered as entering his house, writing on his marker board, leaving messages. Neighbors did do that from time to time, missing someone by a few minutes, hours, or days.

"I am ready, Mister Larsen."

This time he'd heard her approach – neko were less heard than detected. Hearing the patterns of silence seemed to be the better option.

"Good." He turned around, and froze. The neko had changed to … what was her concept of high-class country wear. High leather boots rose to almost knee height, showcasing hip-hugging jeans that rose in turn to a plaid shirt tucked into the waistband. A short denim jacket topped off the ensemble, the entire assemblage resembling nothing more than what he'd seen in the more upscale rodeos. She even had a Stetson, modified for her ears.

"Yeah." His jaw worked. If the woman's intention was to blend, it had succeeded – if a modeling school had been established since the last time he'd been to town. "Might … want to tone it down a little."

Fanchon looked down at herself. "Cette? Ah, this? Is it not quite, how do you say it … dowdy?"

"No." he looked down at his own faded jeans, feeling inadequate for the first time he could remember. His own boots stuck out beneath the material, scuffed and worn. "Eh. Let's move."

Wesson caught him at the door. "Headed to town?"

"Yah." Leif felt as if he should be on his guard.

"Good idea," the agent looked around. "Interrogation is still going on, but it looks like you should be in the clear. Throwing off your pattern should help – security cameras will be installed by the time you get back. Motion detectors are in place, yadda yadda yadda. Bottom line is, you'll have security the current President wishes he could have."

Leif nodded at Fanchon, gesturing towards the pickup cab. "I'll catch up."

She flashed a smile and took dainty steps around a puddle towards the truck.

He waited until the door slammed shut. "Will she be safe with me?"

Wesson snorted. "Every representative sent to you is conversant in at least two martial arts. I don't know how Roanette managed to get 'Gun-Fu' added to the roster, but it counted. Somehow."

Leif quirked an eyebrow. "Sophette."

A corresponding wince crossed Wesson's face. "Yeee-ahhh. Her. That I could believe, what with the thing she ripped off an attack helicopter, apparently. Miss Kissasen will be fine. Just don't try buying her milk or cream, neko see those as courting gifts. Meat is fine, but don't let her have too much cheese."

Leif's eyebrow progressed upwards. "Ice cream count?"

"Filing in Triplicate no!" Wesson shuddered. "It depends on the group, but worst case scenario, that's a marriage proposal."

A reciprocating shudder ran through Leif's frame. "Right. Good advice. Fish?"

"Ask first," Wesson answered immediately. "Most love it but a few see it as patronizing. Even if they love it while they're complaining. Sort of a tsundere approach, y'know?"

Leif hoped his blank expression served notice for ignorance. Whatever this soon-deer was, it most probably wasn't related to a John Deere. Although Wesson did not seem to be such a lowbrow as to follow the lesser brand.

"Right, of course not." Wesson rubbed his forehead. "Um. One minute cranky and whiny, the next they're trying to get you to hit on them."

The blank expression continued. At this point Leif felt confident he could vie with professional comedians for maintaining a deadpan. Of course, anyone that worked around liminals might have that gift, he'd have to wait and see.

"Arg. Tsundere means to be angry and cold at first, then be warm and caring over time. Especially if it's attention from someone he or she likes. You don't follow manga, do you?"

A slow headshake seemed to communicate with the strange Asian man's brain. Leif felt he'd need to slow things down a bit, the man was babbling incoherent nonsense.

"Is this …" he waved towards the pickup's general direction. "Relevant?"

"Of course it is!" Wesson straightened and sighed. "I can't tell if you're just playing dumb or actually ignorant. Who doesn't read manga? It's like half of what goes on in your life is lifted straight from a warped genius light novel writer! How could you not know?"

Leif took a small step too one side. "Waelp. Gotta get goin'. Butcher closes at five y'know."

"Oh, what? Sure, sure." Wesson pushed himself aside. "I'll arrange for study material to be sent to you here. Can't believe it, hasn't even read …." The man's voice trailed off as he walked away, shoulders hunched.

Leif took advantage of the departure, hopping into the driver's side of the cab. The engine rumbled a pleasant song, as if the vehicle itself enjoyed his presence. The dogs were waiting, ears lifted, eager for advice, almost as happy as the truck itself. If machinery could be called happy ….

Maybe he'd been alone too long. He forced himself to the present.

"Find Ro'," he called to the dogs. They pricked their ears forward, then stood up. "Ro. Protect Ro. Good girls."

The three Border collies whirled away, bounding across the terrain. He watched for a minute, until the furred outlines faded. Then he slammed the door shut, eased the clutch back to shift gears, and started the journey.

"What was Wesson asking about?" Fanchon asked from the bench seat's far side.

Leif almost jerked. Passengers in a pickup were rare for him. "Something about soon deer, and some kinda food advice for you. Anything I need to know?"

Her ears angled towards him, then resumed a neutral position. "I know you will not mean anything harmful. There are certain foods that have meaning for neko, but we can talk on the way. How far is it to … where are we going?"

"Eau Clair," Leif checked his blind spot, signaled, and pulled onto the gravel road leading past his ranch. "About three hours, give or take. Faster by car. Trailer's slower."

"Three … hours?" Fanchon's eyes were wide. "To reach town?"

He slowed. "Bit o' a hike. You sure you want to come? Can drop you off easy."

"N-no! C'est bon, ah. It is good. I did not realize it took so long to travel here."

Leif shrugged. "Only three hours. Don't have to do it on horseback, that takes all day."

"Horseback?" Her eyes were completely round now. "People yet ride horse to places?"

He shifted the turn signal, moving onto a larger gravel road. "Yah. Recreation, mostly."

"Mon Dieu," her head wagged back to see a small cow herd in the cover of some trees. "The Old West still lives."

He chuckled. "Never left. Like Rome. Gone, but not forgotten."

After a moment he switched on the radio. The Classical channel was playing yet another request for funding, featuring an expert in some discipline for improving vacations to the Caribbean … or something. Leif had never considered such a thing; far too much water, in a place featuring more strangeness than the last two months combined. So he flipped channels again, landing on a channel where he recognized the music.

Gravel turned to asphalt under his tires, open countryside everywhere he looked. This early the shadows were minimal, sketching the entire vista with almost painful clarity. The road to town was straight, a long ribbon of gray-flecked darkness. Within fifteen minutes he could see the trees surrounding Kitzscher's outer limits, along with the warning sign.

"The population in this town is less than a thousand?" Fanchon observed. "Is it not a village?"

Leif slowed to city speeds – police loved to lurk just inside the speed limit change, to pull over inattentive drivers. "Dunno. Smaller than it was."

Her ears rose as her eyes followed the small business center. A brick-front store stood alongside the biggest restaurant in town, which itself rested comfortably in between the store and a pharmacy. "Why did it … shrink?"

"Happens." Leif lifted the fingers of one hand, acknowledging another driver. "Jobs dry up, folks move on. Economics."

She nodded, looking mournful.

"Ain't that bad," he felt compelled to add. Surging memories of proper grammar poked his conscience. "Isn't that bad," he corrected himself. "One fella and a few machines can do the work of a dozen men now."

"Oui," Fanchon agreed. "But there is little to do, to restore the places to what they once were, no?"

He eyed the road ahead, slowing as a minivan loaded with bicycles and a cargo carrier burled past. "Countryside's going back to what it was. More moose, cougar out there."

A happy sigh echoed from the neko. Her diminutive form twisted in the seat, turning so her body stretched along its width. Small feet tucked themselves under the edge of Leif's jacket, resting against his good thigh. "It is beautiful here. So much color, so many creatures. Magnifique."

Leif eyed the reclining liminal. Her eyes were closed, she seemed unconscious about where her limbs were stretched. But her earlier impression had pointed out intense concentration … perhaps she was relaxing in his presence for a change?

'Haven't done that with them yourself, fair.' The thought rolled through Leif's mind. 'She trusts you. A bit touchy-feely, but trust is trust.'

Against his better judgement, not to mention nerves, he let the neko stay where she was, and drove in silence for the next two hours.

Time passed at speed during the duration. Leif listened to some man sing about how it Ain't My Fault, then to a woman crooning on the topic of a storm blowing away everything she owned. Before the next song gained full steam – a true trucker's song mourning the loss of his eighteen wheeler – he flipped the channel back to the Classical station, where some kind of opera starring a butterfly was now playing.

How a butterfly could become the star of opera he had no idea, but The Trout was an old favorite of his. It was never too late to appreciate new music.

It seemed neko were far closer to cats than he'd anticipated. 'Give 'em sunshine and a spot to sprawl, and they're out like a light.'

Eau Claire was visible in the distance, less than half an hour distant. The taller buildings caught the afternoon sunlight, reflecting white walls into yellow-gold pillars. At this distance the grain silos next to the railroad depots were most visible, blocky superstructures looming in the distance, small against the vast open sky. There were no true 'sky scrapers' in Montana outside of the Capital building. The tallest hotels reached six stories, but this was almost too close.

Leif watched for his turnoff and took it. Gentle turns were natural, upsetting the cattle on their last drive was downright rude, if not unethical. The cattle yard was placed away from the city, and reserved a spot for local farmers in a nod to the folks that made their business run.

Coming to a stop he parked, then looked down at the curled up neko. Her arms were wrapped around herself, and the shoe-less feet were pressed against his thigh as if seeking warmth.

He debated waking her up, but thought better of it. 'Gonna catch hell for this.'

Moving as little as possible, he pulled his jacket off the back where it rested during the three hour drive, and lay it over her still form. Fanchon stirred, but curled deeper into the jacket, burrowing into its patched lining.

He held back a snicker at the sight. Watching the equivalent of a felinoid adult snuggle into a blanket was … amusing. Cute too, but there were people that would cut out his spleen if such a word were stated.

Jamming his hat on, he ducked out the door, leaving the engine on. Eau Claire was at a lower elevation than his ranch. As a consequence, the air was warmer, a balmy forty degrees. Then, he went to see a man about some cattle. It might take a week or longer, but there would be enough meat for an entire tribe of cats for a year.


AN: To this day I do not understand the point of Tsundere. I've had it explained by experts, read uncounted definitions, and still don't comprehend. It's hard for me to take borderline abusive treatment and make it funny … although by the same token I find the Three Stooges hilarious. *shrug*

Also, Eau Claire is a nice city in Wisconsin, not Montana. But there aren't any liminals in the world of proper geography either. So as long as I'm borrowing biology I might as well borrow some geography as well. Objectors can meet me at the legal pub, So-Su-Mi.