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

Everyone around here knows it. Roy says his family deed shows his granddad fenced it off in the ‘50s. I’ve got papers saying otherwise, recorded with the county decades ago. For years, there’ve been whispers about who really owns those acres. Nobody talks about it straight to my face, but I hear the muttering at the co-op, the side-eyes at church.

Land out here isn’t just dirt. It’s pride. It’s money. It’s bloodlines and inheritance and grudges that stretch back generations. Neighbors have drawn rifles over less.

So standing there with that note in my hand, I knew it wasn’t just some prank. Someone wanted to rattle me. Someone wanted me to know they were watching.

I folded it up, shoved it in my back pocket, and walked inside, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. For years, I’ve fought to be taken seriously. Fought to prove I could keep this ranch alive on my own.

But now it feels like the real fight is only just beginning. Out here, people don’t forget land disputes. They bury them. And it looks like the witch hunts of the Middle Ages are back.