I’m not usually one to let strangers get under my skin—but today? I almost lost it.
I was at the feed store, picking up mineral blocks and fencing wire. Wearing my usual: muddy boots, worn jeans, and my long blonde braid tucked into a beat-up ball cap. The guy at the counter looked at me like I’d wandered in by mistake. Then asked if I needed directions to the gift shop.
I replied, “Nope. Just buying the same supplies I’ve been hauling home every week for the past decade.”
He laughed. Then followed up with: “Your husband gonna load the truck for you?”
I told him my husband left five years ago—and the cattle haven’t missed a beat. I run 240 acres solo. I fix busted water lines, birth calves in the middle of the night, and stack hay like it’s child’s play. But folks still see a woman with blonde hair and assume I’m some sort of joke.
Even Roy, my neighbor across the creek, treats me like a weekend hobbyist. Always offering unsolicited advice. He once told me not to “overwork myself, sweetheart.” Funny, considering I’m the one who fixed his broken water line during a blizzard.
I try to brush it off. But it builds. It wears you down, having to work twice as hard to be seen as half competent.
Then today, I got home and found a letter nailed to my barn door. No stamp. No name. Just a folded sheet that read:
“I know what you did with the west pasture.”
I read it five times. That land is my pride—thirty acres I’ve poured a year’s worth of labor into restoring. When my ex left, it was wrecked. Eroded soil, busted fences, broken irrigation. I rebuilt it, seed by seed. Now it’s green, strong, thriving.
So what exactly was I being accused of?
Teen prank? Roy trying to mess with me? Didn’t seem like him—he’s blunt, not cryptic. I didn’t know who else would care enough about my ranch to leave a message like that.
I stuffed the letter in my pocket, tried to shake it off. But I couldn’t. By the afternoon, I was in my truck, headed to Roy’s place.
He was out by his shop when I pulled up. Saw the look on my face and didn’t even finish his wave.
I held out the note. “This mean anything to you?”
He read it and frowned. “Wasn’t me. Maybe check with Garrison?”
Old man Garrison’s the type to shout from his porch, not leave anonymous threats. Still, Roy insisted he wasn’t involved. Then he mentioned something else—”People are talking. Heard you might have a new buyer for your heifers.”
I sighed. “Yeah. Looking at a better deal. But that’s my business.”
He nodded. “Wasn’t me, I swear. Need anything while you’re here?”
That caught me off guard. It wasn’t his usual tone. For once, he actually seemed… genuine. I declined, thanked him, and left.
Next morning was routine. Chickens fed, herd checked, fence line walked with Pepper—my loyal Aussie mix. She’s fiercely protective since last year’s coyote mess.
We were crossing the west pasture when I spotted footprints by the pond. Not mine. Too light for Roy’s. Someone had been trespassing.
Pepper growled. My nerves went tight.
Back at the barn, the door showed fresh scratches near the nails—someone had tried to pry it open. This wasn’t a joke. Someone was snooping. Maybe even trying to scare me.
That night, I grabbed dinner at the diner and picked up more locks. Ran into Lucia, my friend who runs a successful dairy farm nearby. Told her the whole story.
She listened, then asked, “You think it could be someone from your ex’s side? Trying to stake a claim?”
I didn’t think so. He left and never looked back.
She offered to come camp out with me in the west pasture if things got worse. That meant more than she knew.
Driving home, stars above and gravel crunching under my tires, I spotted movement by the barn. Headlights caught a figure crouched at the side door.
I hit the brakes. Yelled. Pepper flew out of the truck, barking. The figure bolted—hopped the fence and vanished into the dark.
Heart racing, I inspected the lock. Half undone. More scratches.
This wasn’t random. Someone was targeting me.
Next day, I spread the word. Told Roy, Lucia, even Garrison. Called the sheriff. A deputy came by, took a look, suggested trail cams.
Then Roy called again. Spotted someone lurking near the creek, snapping photos. Got the license plate off a truck with out-of-town tags.
I passed it to the sheriff.
A few days later, they called me back. Truck belonged to a consultant hired by a development group trying to buy up local ranches. They’d been creeping around, trying to spook landowners into selling.
That’s what this was—intimidation.
We rallied. Brought it to the farming association. Word spread. Enough pressure, and the developers backed off.
When the dust settled, I stood taller. I’d defended what was mine. Not just the land—but my dignity.
Next time I walked into the feed store, the guy at the counter didn’t laugh. He gave me a nod. Respectful.
I didn’t need an apology. I’d already earned it.
People can say what they want. Call me Barbie. Call me stubborn.
Just don’t forget—I’m the one keeping this ranch running.
And I always will.
