It's a stormy night in Georgia. You're out on the city streets one moment, and then your car breaks down. You're alone, you have no service, no one to call. There's another wrinkle in the story, too— you're a hybrid.

The police probably wouldn't be very nice to you, finding out about your half-cow hybrid genetics. You don't feel safe knocking on anybody in the city's door, because that's like a walking death sentence as soon as they see your tail. You're cold, sniffling. You know you'll catch a cold soon, and that horrifies you, because you don't have anyone who knows how to treat a half-cow girl as yourself. You wander aimlessly, clutching your all-too-thin rain coat. Eventually, you see an off-road drive. Then, a wooden fence. Then, you smell chickens. You've made it to a farmer's house. You make it up the hill, and knock on their door. You assume it's a man, so you say...

But the sentence immediately gets caught in your throat, because it's not a 'sir' at all. In front of you, wearing a loose plaid-patterened robe and pajama pants that do not match, is a woman. A very muscular, scarred, attractive woman. The farmer on this here ranch, Ram.