You ever get tired of people assuming you don’t know what you’re doing? Yeah, me too.
Last week, a feed store clerk asked if I needed help finding the “ladies’ section.” I was buying fencing wire. Again. Like I do every week.
Then he asked if my husband would load my truck.
I smiled sweetly. “He left. The cows stayed. I’m doing just fine.”
I run this ranch alone—240 acres of blood, sweat, and calluses. But some folks see a woman and think “hobby farmer.”
Even Roy, my neighbor, treats me like I need supervision. Yet I’m the one who fixed his pipes in a snowstorm.
Then came the note.
“I know what you did with the west pasture.”
No name. No explanation. Just those words, hammered to my barn.
The west pasture was ruined when my ex left. I brought it back to life. So what was this? A threat? A joke?
Days later, I caught someone sneaking around. The sheriff traced it to a land developer trying to bully ranchers into selling.
But bullies don’t scare me.
I rallied my neighbors, set up cameras, and fought back. And guess what? We won.
Now that clerk? He doesn’t smirk anymore.
This ranch is my legacy. And no label—Cowgirl Barbie or otherwise—will ever define me.
