Let’s get one thing straight: This ranch doesn’t run itself. I do.
But try telling that to the feed store clerk who asked if I needed “help” picking out supplies. Or my neighbor Roy, who acts like I’ve never seen a fence before.
Then came the note.
“I know what you did with the west pasture.”
Cryptic. Creepy. And absolutely ridiculous—because all I “did” was turn a wasteland into thriving grazing land.
But someone wanted me rattled. Footprints. Scratches on the barn. A shadowy figure fleeing into the night.
I didn’t back down. I called the sheriff, set up cameras, and discovered a developer pressuring ranchers to sell.
Joke’s on them. I don’t scare easy.
Now? The clerk doesn’t patronize me. Roy doesn’t question me. And this ranch? Still mine.
Because strength isn’t about never needing help—it’s about knowing when to ask. And I’ve got a whole community behind me.
So call me Cowgirl Barbie if you want. But this Barbie’s got dirt under her nails and a ranch to run.
