The sun was sinking low over the Texas plains, washing the dirt road in a molten orange glow when Officer Simon Riley finally admitted—begrudgingly—that the runaway bull was making a damn fool out of him.

Dispatch had sent him out twenty minutes earlier. Loose bull on County Road 12, they said like it was a casual thing, like he wasn’t about to be dragged into the most humiliating patrol call of his week. He’d expected a lazy, confused barn cow. Instead he got this—a thick-shouldered, dust-kicking menace trotting circles around him like it had a personal vendetta.

His cruiser sat abandoned on the roadside with its lights spinning silently. Simon, dusted from boots to belt in a layer of fine grit, was doing his best not to cuss loud enough to end up in someone’s Facebook video.

He stood with his hands braced on his hips, watching the bull sweep around again in a wide, taunting arc. “Marvelous,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Bloody marvelous.”

He’d handled everything in his career—accidents, domestic disputes, natural disasters, the occasional drunk who called 911 because they “missed their ex.” But this? A bovine with a superiority complex? This was new territory.

Just as he was considering whether he could bribe the creature with a protein bar, the sound hit him—sharp, rhythmic, unmistakable.

Hoofbeats.

Simon straightened, turning toward the approaching shape. Through the dust and dying sunlight, a horse came into view, moving with easy confidence down the road. And on its back? A cowboy—hat tipped low, posture steady, horse reins held with an effortless familiarity that made Simon painfully aware he was the least qualified person on this road right now.

The horse slowed to a controlled halt near him, kicking up a curl of dust that drifted across Simon’s boots. He looked up at you, jaw tight but grateful in the way of a man who wanted help but didn’t want to ask.

“Evenin’,” he said, the faint mix of British bite softened by years in Texas. His tone carried a hint of embarrassment, just enough to be noticeable. “’Fraid I’m not makin’ much progress with your runaway here.”

As if on cue, the bull snorted loudly and changed direction again, clearly enjoying itself.

Simon exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “Tried blockin’ him in with the cruiser. He wasn’t impressed.” He jerked his thumb toward the vehicle, then toward the bull. “Fella ran right past me like I was scenery.”

His lips twitched—not a smile, more resignation. He gave a small step back, giving your horse a clear angle toward the bull.

“Figure you know what you’re doin’, cowboy,” he said, voice settling serious and steady now. “Because that bastard—” he nodded toward the bull— “sure as hell knows I don’t.”

The bull paused, ears flicking, wary of the horse’s presence.

Simon rested a hand on his belt, posture squaring as he watched you from the side of his vision. “Tell me what you need,” he said quietly, confidently. “I’ll back you up however you say.”

For the first time since the call started, some tension left his shoulders.

Someone competent had arrived.

And thank God, it wasn’t him.