Page 10 of The Love Leap

I freeze, straining to identify the noise in the dim evening light. It comes again, louder this time. A sort of huffing snort that raises the hair on the back of my neck.

Slowly, I turn toward the sound.

Standing in the grasses of a pasture I hadn’t realized I’d wandered into is what can only be described as a wall of fur with horns.

A massive Highland cow, its shaggy, rusty red coat dripping with rain, regards me with what even I can recognize as territorial displeasure. Steam rises from its considerable bulk in the cool air, giving it an otherworldly appearance: part mythical beast, part real fucking problem.

It glares at me like I’m about to become its unwilling co-star inCow Wars: Revenge of the Bovine.

“Good cow,” I murmur, fully aware my words hold as much weight as a feather in a tornado.

“Sweet, innocent little moo-moo!” I coo, cranking my voice to saccharine levels, praying this bovine beast appreciates flattery.

It doesn’t.

The creature digs into the muck with one hoof, its horns—majestic arcs that would make any Viking helmet envious—angling subtly in my direction.

My mind races through everything I know about Highland cattle, which amounts to exactly this:

-they’re on postcards

-they’re on tea towels

-they’re supposedly docile.

This one appears to have missed the “docile” memo.

We stare at each other, this highland cow and I, locked in a moment of mutual assessment. I consider my options: slowly back away? make a run for it? stand perfectly still and hope the cow loses interest?

Before I can decide, the universe makes the choice for me.

My phone, buried in my purse under the poncho, chooses this moment to emit a beep—a cheerful three-note sound from theFarm Animal Soundsapp I forgot I’d installed. The sound shatters the standoff like a gunshot.

The cow’s head jerks up, eyes flashing with what I can only interpret as bovine outrage. With surprising speed for something so large, it lowers its horns and charges, hooves churning the muddy earth into a spray of debris.

“Oh, no, fuckity, NO!”

The words burst from me as I dive to the side, poncho billowing around me like a parachute that’s forgotten its purpose.

The cow thunders past, missing me by inches, its bulk displacing the air with enough force to make my ears pop. I scramble to my feet, heels slipping in the mud, adrenaline surging through my veins like electricity. The cow skids to a stop, wheels around, and fixes me with a stare that communicates clear intent for a second attempt.

Great. Sothisis how I die. Not in luxury senior living, surrounded by admirers of my literary genius, but trampled in Scottish mud while wearing the world’s ugliest poncho.

Before I turn to run down the hill, my eyes snag on a towering figure in the field. He’s a beaconagainst the tempestuous sky, his muscular form slicing through the rain-soaked chaos.

“Buttercup! Steady on, ya big beastie!” he bellows, his voice thick with Scottish undertones that somehow make all of this seem less terrifying.

In seconds, he’s corralling the cow away with an ease that’s almost enviable.

“You alright there, lass?” he calls out over the howling wind.

His words instantly get snatched up by a huge gust of wind as my heel catches on something—a rock, a root, my own colossal bad luck—and suddenly, I’m falling backward, arms windmilling uselessly against gravity, tumbling down what turns out to be a much steeper hill than I’d initially thought.

Each backward roll is a crash course in pain—elbow meets earth, hip slams into stone, and my dignity takes a brutal hit from reality. My suitcase whizzes past me; my purse swings wildly like some sort of weaponized accessory, smacking me in the face every now and then for good measure.

Eventually, I skid to an ungraceful halt at the base of this hill-from-hell; face mashed against what feels like nettles and limbs arranged like an abstract art piece.

For a moment, I just lie there conducting a mental check-up—everything hurts, but it’s more bruise-y than broken-y.

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