I’ve spent years proving myself as a rancher, but folks still doubt me. At the feed store, the clerk laughed when I said I’d be loading my own truck. Neighbors “check my fences” like I don’t run 240 acres alone. I let it roll off—until I found a note nailed to my barn: “I know what you did with the west pasture.” That pasture is my pride, restored after my ex left it ruined. I suspected a prank—until I saw footprints by the pond and scratches on my barn door.
One night, I even caught a figure prying at the lock before vanishing into the dark. I told my neighbors and called the sheriff. Soon Roy, the man across the creek, spotted someone in a hoodie taking photos near my fence. He caught their license plate. Deputies traced it to a consultant working for a developer trying to pressure ranchers to sell.
The creepy notes and trespassing were intimidation tactics. Once we spread the word, the developer backed off. I realized strength doesn’t mean doing everything alone—it’s knowing when to ask for backup.
Now the west pasture is green, the cows are thriving, and the feed store clerk nods with respect. I’m no “Cowgirl Barbie.” I’m grit, not glitter. This ranch is mine, and no one’s taking it away.
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