I was at the feed store, covered in mud and dust, when the guy behind the counter smirked. “You need directions to the gift shop, ma’am?” I smiled thinly. “Nope. Been buying feed here for ten years.” Then he asked if my husband would load the truck. “My husband left five years ago,” I said. “The cows didn’t seem to mind.” People see blonde hair and think “cowgirl Barbie.” They don’t see the 240 acres I run alone—calving at 2 a.m., fixing fences, hauling hay.
But that afternoon, something rattled me: a note nailed to my barn door. “I know what you did with the west pasture.” That pasture was my pride. I’d rebuilt it from ruin after my ex left. Who’d accuse me of something? I asked my neighbor Roy, but he swore he knew nothing. The next morning, my dog found fresh footprints by the pond and scratches on the barn door. Someone had tried prying it open.
I called the sheriff. Two days later, Roy spotted a stranger near my fence—truck with out-of-county plates. The license traced back to a developer trying to pressure ranchers to sell. That note was an intimidation tactic. They picked the wrong woman.
When it was over, the feed-store guy just nodded as I loaded my own truck. I realized then—real strength isn’t doing everything alone. It’s standing your ground and knowing when to let others stand with you. I’m not glitter. I’m grit. I run this ranch.