THEY THINK I’M JUST A “COWGIRL BARBIE”—BUT I RUN THIS WHOLE DAMN RANCH
I Don’t Usually Lose My Temper, But Today? Almost Did.
It started at the feed store, like so many other mornings. I was grabbing supplies, mud-caked boots and well-worn cap, when the guy behind the counter asked if I needed directions to the gift shop.
Then he laughed and asked if my «husband» would be loading the truck. I told him my husband left five years ago—and the cows didn’t mind. I run 240 acres solo.
It never fails—people still assume I can’t handle the job just because I’m a woman. Even Roy, the neighbor across the creek, feels the need to check on my fences like I don’t know what I’m doing.
Funny, considering I was the one who patched his busted water line last winter.
But that afternoon, something hit me harder than usual. When I got home, I found a note nailed to my barn door: “I know what you did with the west pasture.”
That’s when the doubt crept in. I’ve spent the last year restoring that land—reseeding, fixing irrigation, bringing it back to life after my ex left it in ruins. Who would leave a note like that? Was it Roy? Some bored teens?
I drove to Roy’s place to ask him straight up. He swore it wasn’t him, though he did mention some rumors about me having a buyer lined up for the property.
Gossip spreads fast, but that didn’t explain the note. He offered help—genuinely, for once—but I told him I had it covered.
The next morning started like any other until I noticed strange footprints near the pond—too small to be Roy’s, and definitely not mine. Pepper, my dog, started growling.
That’s when I saw the scratches on the barn door, like someone had tried to break in.
Later that day, I ran into my friend Lucia at the diner. I told her everything, and she suggested it might be someone from my ex’s side trying to stake a claim. It didn’t seem likely, but you never know.
That night, as I drove home under a clear sky, I spotted someone crouched by the barn. I slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the truck, and yelled.
Pepper barked like a mad dog. The figure bolted—quick, slim, and gone in seconds. I checked the barn door; the lock was almost undone.
Someone was watching my land—and they weren’t just leaving notes anymore.
I locked myself inside, heart racing. The note was still on the door: “I know what you did with the west pasture.” But I hadn’t done anything wrong—just rebuilt what my ex destroyed.
The next morning, I called the neighbors and the sheriff. A deputy came by and found more trespassing footprints. He suggested installing trail cameras.
Soon after, Roy spotted someone in a hoodie near my property, snapping photos. He got the license plate, and I passed it along to the sheriff.
Turns out, it was Lillian Black, a property consultant working for a development company that had been quietly trying to buy up ranches—sometimes through threats and intimidation.
We gathered our evidence, got the county commissioner involved, and the developers backed off.
I felt a wave of relief—but even stronger than that was the pride. I didn’t let fear dictate my choices. I stood my ground and learned that asking for help doesn’t make me weak—it makes me smart.
The next time I walked into town, even the guy at the feed store gave me a look of respect.
People may have seen me as “Cowgirl Barbie” before, but now they know—I’m more than just glitter. I run this ranch—and no one’s pushing me off it.
