The bite of tires on gravel is all but lost under the growl of a diesel engine, dually bouncing down the driveway like a lumbering giant. Kicking up a thick cloud of golden dust that signals its arrival to the entire farm yard, even from working the haymow the rattle of rocks against the undercarriage of the livestock trailer are unmissable. The noise is enough for Ruthie McAffery to peek her head out of the mow's door—the two long draws on the horn aren't necessary, but punctuate arrival anyway.

Steely-gray Dodge notwithstanding, the rig is familiar—the logo of the neighboring ranch couldn't be any louder if you'd painted it in Vegas neon, and Ruthie watches the rig swing wide to pull up beside the entrance to the sand arena. It sits there, nearly vibrating beneath the weight of a Cummins engine for a few long minutes until the driver's door pops. Out swings Lee Bills, situating his Stetson back into place as his eyes flick over the yard.

At first glance, Bills is an intimidating man—he stands a hearty six foot five, is two-hundred plus pounds of grass-fed beef and ranch muscle leathered from endless Tennessee sun. Even from here, the sweat stain sticking the back of his Wrangler shirt to his spine is visible, dark against his massive shoulders. With the back of his hand he wipes at his top lip, before he turns on his heel and considers the barn, eyes shaded from the brim of his hat. He hardly looks the part of a Governor, but that's probably why the great people of Tennessee had voted him into office two terms ago.

Situating in the mouth of the mow's door, Ruthie drops into a squat to peer out the small window into daylight, gloved hand knocking the bill of her cap back a little as she smirks down at the sight. Stretching animatedly, she works off a glove, edges to lean against the frame of the window, and whistles sharply down at the Stetson—his gaze immediately snaps up to her, a pearlescent smile splitting his face as he waves up at her, once.

"What brings you out this way, stranger?" Voice ringing down from the mow, Bills approaches the barn slowly as she moves from the window. "I'll be right down, Lee." Using the glove, she brushes away the sweat clinging above her own upper lip and stands.

"Sure thing, sweetheart," his voice is clearer when he steps into the barn, "be careful up there. Your daddy not around to watch you, or what?" Peeking over the loft, he stands int he aisle, kicked back against the barn office, smiling at her crookedly. Like Lee always has. "Anyone every tell you you ain't supposed to work the hay loft all by your lonesome, pretty?"

She can't help her smile as she moves for the stairs, stuffing gloves into her back pockets. Lee is a familiar face around Zion's Fork—his family has been fortressed the next ranch over for generations, his father running spades beside her own grandfather.

They'd settled in this valley much the same time as the other in the late 1800s, originally Arizona transplants. Renowned for feisty stock and world-class ropers, McAffery's had rich history in Prescott's first July 4 rodeo—and it took off. Not long after the mess in Tombstone and the Earp's had kicked up hell, the McAffery's had decided on the lush hills of Middle Tennessee valley, taking rodeo—and their champion stock—with them. The Bills got out of Dodge not long after, their coveted beef along for the ride.

Two bloodlines running livestock so close together had never been an issue in the Arizona wilds—demand for beef was up, which kept the Bills satisfied, and when rodeo didn't need sporting animals, the McAffery's were known for breeding and breaking quality horses. Never a stitch of bad blood between the two, nobody east of the Colorado had been surprised when the Bills' wagons caught up with the McAffery operation.

Forgoing the last step of the loft's staircase, her smile grows as she adjusts the bill of her snapback into place and extends a hand, which Lee moves to shake firmly. He's sweating harder than he should be just driving over here, but Lee spends more time in his state office than the ranch—a fact her father never ceases to tease him about. Brushing hay from her arms, she manages to shrug and roll her eyes to the ceiling.

"You know how it is around here," she moves to nudge him with her elbow loosely, "can't tell Dad anything, Lee." His guffaw is loud and lacks grace when she offers him a crooked smile, gesturing past the barn's door to his rig with a nod, "you finally come for that stud, or just drag that thing around to show off?"

"You're too much like your daddy," he chuckles nervously, in reference to the thirty-odd thousand dollar trailer. "Speaking of, is the old man around? Wanted to talk with him about somethin'." The way his body language changes says that this is not merely about the aforementioned stud. Something else has Lee sweating bullets, given the way his skin is all but bubbled with glistening sweat.

"Like?" Investigation all but prods at the man like a shock stick, Ruthie not missing the duck of his head to consider the toes of his boots no sooner than her words cut the air. This pops her brow beneath the brim of her snapback—Lee is never this evasive. Or, he hasn't been, directly to her face. Chuckling a little nervously, her hands find her hips and she angles to face him. "Sweet heavens, Lee—something the matter? You aren't in trouble, are you?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Not in the way you're thinkin', darlin'," well that does next to nothing but raise red flags even higher, and her curiosity snaps like a flag on a high wind as she stops abruptly at the back of Lee's trailer, coming about to face him. When he looks up at her, he rolls his eyes. "Oh, don't give me that look, little miss—it ain't trouble of no kind, Scout's honor." He puts his hand over his heart, shaking his head, fingers slipping into the pocket of his too-tight Wranglers. "It's just business, Ruth—"

"And since when can you not talk business with me, Lee Bills?"

It's a double-edged question, really. A loaded gun, since his election to office. Since childhood Lee has been a man Ruthie has always been able to approach with a problem of any kind—it was him who helped her flip the coin between University of Tennessee, Knoxville and going out of state to Kentucky—a letter of recommendation from one of Mid-Tenn's most prominent ranchers had helped her odds either place. And then there was that time he'd driven five hours to Atlanta to pull her out of a mess of a situation with her father's pickup. More times than she's likely to count, Lee has always been a man she can trust.

Until the Governor's office. Since becoming Governor, Bills had taken a talk-less, think-about-words-more approach to their usual interactions. And while Ruthie was aware it had everything to do with her desk at the Tennesseean and little at all to do with anything personal, it still stung. He felt he couldn't trust her as a member of the media. That cut deep between the ribs—and while he assured her otherwise, it wasn't the same. Even after she'd left her desk at the paper.

Nothing short of that fact is written across his face as he offers her a pathetic, placating smile. "Any idea where your father is, Ruth?" And his insistence not to call her Ruthie also burns like a branding iron, too. Muscle in her jaw ticking, she bites at the inside of her cheek. There's no getting a word out of him, not now—politicians. They're all the same, familiar or not.

Turning on the ball of her foot a bit too quickly, she checks over her shoulder. "I'll send him down, Governor," the title is a deliberately bite of her own at his aversion, boots all but grinding the anger simmering beneath her skin into the gravel. "Don't trouble yourself." It's far icier than she wants it to be, but it's out of her mouth and flying before she can even think twice.

And she can feel Lee's eye roll even from the distance she puts between them. Hiking towards the house as never been such a long journey, and she can only imagine how her father will respond—he's only been on the phone with a PBR rep since lunch. If nothing else, he'll be happy to shoot the shit with Lee. Maybe get some details out of him that she can pry into later—her father won't keep secrets from her. Never has, and isn't likely to start.

Ben McAffery is a lot of things, but shy around the media isn't one of them. Experience has taught her that much—half of her investigative skills have come from all his years of working rodeo and dealing with media relations. She wouldn't be half the professional her current reputation boasts without his endless riding and prying, and while insanely obnoxious, it's well earned. And appreciated. Hell, half the reason she'd even landed time with the Tennesseean was because her daddy was, well—her father. And her references included the office of the Governor, the Attorney General.

Taking the steps to the house two at a time, the screen door slaps closed behind her with enough force to send vibrations through the floorboards. Toeing open the front door, she sweeps the hat from her head, plucks the gloves from her back pocket, and deposits them both on the mudroom's bench as she arches wide into the country kitchen, boots thunking off the floor heavily. A quick glance reveals that Ben isn't parked at the dining room table, like he'd been most of the afternoon—his mound of paperwork is there, in disarray; the wide-brimmed hat. Legal pad of notes, abandoned coffee. But the man himself has vanished, and for a moment she's surprised he's managed off anywhere without his hat.

"Daddy around?" Moving to her mother, she presses a kiss to the woman's cheek and peers over-shoulder to watch her peeling potatoes into the porcelain sink, "Lee's here with his trailer for that stud, out by the arena." Trish McAffery's wrinkled gaze lifts to her daughter, and her mouth no more parts to ask the question before Ruthie's hands lift in mock surrender, "And before you say it—he doesn't wanna talk to me. Want's to see Dad. I tried."

Sighing, her eyes roll to the ceiling. "I'll be glad to have that stallion gone—sick of your father tiptoeing around 'im like he's worth the fortune I know he ain't," she stops peeling the potato, drops it and the peeler into the sink to wips hands over the front of her jeans, "and the way that man has gone on about it, you'd think he was made'a porcelain." Crossing to the fridge, she opens it, ducks inside, and grabs a can of Diet Coke, "And what reason did he give that you couldn't get that stud out and loaded? Riggs' got him all put up in the barn, for God sake. Couldn't get any easier, less the thing was gonna load himself."

Leaning against the sink, Ruthie shrugs a shoulder and kicks her foot over the other. As the woman of the house and resident 30-plus year wife of Zion's Fork, Trish McAffery has not once ever failed to let her opinions run away with her. If anyone should fear saying anything out of turn to anyone on this ranch, it's Trish—she's like a timber box. Any second liable to go up in flames or send heat barreling any which direction, should the occasion call for it. Never one to shy away from the truth or the hard subjects, she lacks all the social grace her husband tries to employ—which is why she managed things at home, and not in the public eye.

But a youth in rodeo pageantry and a lifetime of marriage to ranch work and the business will do that to women—or it has done it to women, anyway. Which is more than enough reason for Ruthie to have opted out of the family expectation. Marrying into the business is more than a habit in her bloodline, it's almost a tradition— her brother had married a rancher's daughter from Montana. Lee's sons were all engaged to rodeo queens or cattlewomen from the area. It ran in the water, almost the blood. College couldn't have come sooner, journalism any faster than it had already come and gone.

Carding fingers through her hair, Ruthie's shoulders lift dismissively. Eyes wide with disbelief, her palms clap to the front of her thighs, "You tell me. He's acting weird."

"Well that's no surprise," her mother's snort is punctuated with the crack of the can's tab, "it's Lee, darlin'. Normal isn't exactly something he keeps in the toolbelt." Taking a long draw of the Coke, her finger wagging over Ruthie furrows her brow, "You finish stacking those bales Riggs dropped off this morning? You know how pissed Dad will be if it ain't finished." Eyes cutting to the other side of the kitchen, heavy footfalls rattle the floorboards a little as muttering makes its way down the hallway, like a lumbering Goliath.

Ben stops in the threshold separating the dining room from the kitchen, starting at the littering of notes in one hand, pen in the other. A full head and shoulders taller than his wife, his six foot six makes him a behemoth of a man as intimidating as his reputation would allow. Complete with broad shoulders, a country gut and arms thick as trees, he is nothing to be trifled with—a living picture of ranch life. May as well have walked right out of a John Wayne western, the way his mannerisms and dress would suggest.

His usual Wranglers pull tight over well-worn boots, button-down shirt paired always with his summer vest all but his trademark. Hair slicked to one side in only the way fingers can manage despite perpetually living beneath his wide-brim. Handle-bar mustache all but greased into perfection, his readers are almost resting on the ball of his nose; they're so low his eyes cut up and over them from the notes to consider his wife and daughter both looking at him, patiently. Clearing his throat, his brow furrows suspiciously.

"Who died?" He challenges, accent thick and slow as he stuffs the notes in the pocket of his vest. Eyes moving immediately to his daughter, he pushes his glasses up into his hairline and crosses to the counter, reaching for the abandoned package of Marlboro's and his favorite lighter, "Can't be finished with all that way, sweetheart. No way in hell you've—"

"Lee Bills is here," pushing off the counter, she gestures with her head to the door, "here to get that stud. Has something to talk to you about that he'd rather take to his grave than tell me." Curling her socked toes within her boots, Ruthie moves to the fridge to withdraw the pitcher of water. Retrieves a glass from the strainer beside the sink. "Riggs has that stud ready to go. You want me to ride him for Lee in the arena, or—?"

Massaging the bridge of his nose, Ben manages a sigh before nodding. Every inch of the negotiation with the PBR is written across his features. Smacking the cigarette pack against his palm, his eyes move to his wife and she shrugs, as if the question isn't up to her—it always is. Trish is the spine behind most of the business transactions regarding horses and the private sector, and she'd been hell bent against the stud from the minute it had dropped off the trailer.

"I suppose you'd better talk to him first," Trish's gestures animatedly before returning to the sink to continue with dinner's potatoes, "see what the man wants and then deal with the stallion. Who knows, maybe he wants to deal—Lord help you if he does," her eyes roll to consider Ruthie, "you go get him tacked and ready to make a few laps around the sand, Ruthie honey. Let Daddy deal with the important business and then you take him through the paces, hm?"

"Fine," padding back to the mudroom, Ben follows close behind, hands on the back of her shoulders to manage an understanding squeeze, "you want me to send him some hay? Sure that fancy rig has some kind of manger or nets or something. He probably could use something to eat."

Patting a hand against her shoulder, he nods once, familiar hat replaced on his head snugly as he brushes by her to the door. "Sure thing, sweetheart—you set him up good for the road," stopping halfway out the door, he manages it open with the toe of his boot, "Lee say anything about this mystery talk, or am I just shootin' blind here?" Every inch of his face reads confused—and it has the right to be. Lee is never evasive. This is just weird behavior.

"Wouldn't say anything to me," Ruthie chimes, shoulders shrugging as she reaches for the previously-abandoned snapback and gloves, "my guess is Governor shit. But you know how Lee is." Humidity assaults like an ocean wave as she steps out of the A/C, and it is nearly shoulder-dropping as she hurries down the porch steps.

Eyes rolling to the sky, Ben's chuckle is more of a snort as he slips out a cigarette, lights it, and toes open the screen door. "Yeah, I reckon I know how Lee is," he mutters, cigarette tucking in the pocket of his lip, Zippo disappearing into the front pocket of his vest. "'Probly know all too well, point of fact."

Throwing a snort over her shoulder, her smile is all but beaming as she turns to consider her father. "You can say that again," and with an exaggerated eye roll she whirls away, hustling to the barn while her father shakes hands with the man from the Governor's grand office all the way down in Nashville.

/

"Charlie Blackwood,"

The name cuts from the air like a clear bell, Charlie's gaze snapping up from the dossier she's been bent over all afternoon sitting in this damn reception space. It's a hundred degrees outside and the A/C in this place hasn't even started cutting it. Sweat's nearly soaked her blazer as she stands quickly, materials tucked under arm as she moves to shake hands with the man quickly crossing the floor to her.

"Sir," she nods to him briskly, "it's a pleasure to meet—"

He doesn't give her the chance to finish. "This way, Miss Blackwood," he gestures with his head, "I'm afraid we'll have to make this short. We've expedited your credentials, for obvious reasons. The Secretary of Defense is more than ready for your research to be underway—he would like a briefing by the end of July, at the very latest," he clears his throat and begins the trek through the twisting corridors of the Pentagon, quickly, "and I should tell you—the Pentagon wants the heavy lift, ma'am. We're hoping to present findings to the President by the end of the fiscal year, to propose funding."

Mouth all but dropping, Charlie's heels tick off the floor quickly in an attempt to keep pace with the profusely sweating, paper-shuffling man that can only be Anthony Lewis, the famed Deputy Secretary. She'd been on the calendar for this meeting for weeks—the MiG sighting was a lucky star. She'd only been petitioning for months to get into San Diego, to begin gathering statistical data. It was the chance of a lifetime, and when she'd been presented with the opportunity? Well. It was more than luck—damn near fate, really.

"Sir, really, I—"

"And let me tell you something, Miss Blackwood," he stops, points a finger at her, and furrows his brow. "The full arm of my department is behind you in this. We've already got a place on lease down there in San Diego, you should find it to your liking. My contacts over at Top Gun have everything set and ready for you—the instructors down there are usually tight as shit about this type of thing, but, they'll more than accommodating for you and your assistant—"

Blinking, too much information has her head nearly spinning. San Diego? A house? Full arm of the Pentagon? Top Gun had been a given, she'd already been working those halls for some time, but—and assistant? She hadn't filed for any additional personnel. That had been a distinct question she'd checked a certain no down on. The last thing she needed was a meddling research snob to be asking questions about data she'd been bleeding over for nearly two years.

"Sir, forgive me, but—an assistant? I don't remember—"

"Yes, an assistant has been already fielded for you, Miss Blackwood. Pending acceptance of the position, of course—just for the summer, understanding. Personal friend of mine recommended her. She's got the top marks. More than savvy, I'm told," with a wave of his hand, he ushers her down the hallway at an even more brutal pace, "and between the two you, I believe this report should be water tight by the time we elect to present it to the Secretary of Defense. I expect nothing less, actually."

And there is no room for question, no room for counterarguments, as Charlie is swept farther into the belly of the beast—and farther into many questions she does not receive answers for, either.