They Think I’m Just a Cowgirl Barbie — But I Run This Whole Damn Ranch (2 of 3)

I said flatly, “No. I’m here for what I’ve been buying for ten years.”

He chuckled. Then he asked if my “husband” would be loading the truck.

My husband’s been gone five years. Walked out one morning, left me with three dogs, a busted tractor, and two hundred forty acres of land that doesn’t run itself. The cows didn’t care. The broken water lines didn’t care. And I sure as hell didn’t stop. I patched fences, pulled calves out of mud at two a.m., and hauled feed through snowstorms — alone.

But folks still look at me — a cowgirl barbie — and think I’m pretending. Even my neighbor Roy can’t resist sticking his nose in. He’ll call across the fence, “Don’t overwork yourself, sweetheart,” like he’s doing me a favor. Funny thing is, last winter, when his water line snapped in a freeze, I was the one knee-deep in ice to fix it.

I try to let it roll off, but it builds. Every laugh, every condescending comment. You get tired of proving yourself twice over just to be seen as half as capable.

By the time I left the feed store, I was furious. By the time I got home, I’d almost talked myself down.

Until I saw the note.

It was nailed to my barn door. No envelope. No name. Just a folded piece of paper hammered into the wood. My stomach twisted as I pulled it free. The handwriting was jagged, carved into the page like the writer wanted to leave scars.

It read: “I know what you did with the west pasture.”

That’s it. No explanation.

I stood there, heart pounding, staring across the fields. The west pasture stretched out under the afternoon sun, golden and quiet. Nothing unusual — just cattle grazing along the fenceline. But here’s the thing: that land hasn’t been simple in years.