Love Lasso’d a Billionaire

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The air in Copper Creek usually tastes like sun-warmed pine and the sweet, yeast-heavy promise of Mrs. Gable’s famous cinnamon rolls. It’s a Saturday morning ritual—the kind of quiet, predictable magic that keeps this town tethered to the earth. I’m standing near the edge of the market square, a crate of livestock vaccines tucked under one arm, enjoying the familiar hum of neighbors bartering over heirloom tomatoes and hand-woven blankets. Then, the world breaks. The sound hits first—a frantic, guttural bellow followed by the splintering of dry wood. I drop the crate. Glass vials rattle inside, but I’m already moving. Across the square, a longhorn steer, three-quarters of a ton of panicked muscle and sharpened bone, is barreling through a display of artisanal jams. Glass jars shatter like grenades, spraying ruby-red preserves across the white tablecloths. "Get back! Clear the street!" I scream, my voice cutting through the sudden, sharp shrieks of the crowd. My heart isn't just racing; it’s a drumbeat in my throat, rhythmic and demanding. Most people see the horns—those six-foot spans of lethal ivory—, but I see the eyes. They’re rolled back, white and wild with a primitive terror. Something spooked him, and in this state, he’s a runaway freight train with no brakes.