I Don’t Usually Let Things Get to Me—But This Time Was Different
It started like any other day—I was at the feed store picking up mineral blocks and fencing wire. Dressed in my usual gear—mud-caked boots, worn jeans, and my long blonde braid tucked under a weathered baseball cap—I figured I’d be in and out.
The man behind the counter gave me a curious look, like maybe I’d wandered in by mistake. “Looking for the gift shop?” he asked with a smirk.
“Nope,” I replied. “Just here for the same supplies I’ve been buying every week for the past ten years.”
He chuckled, then added, “Will your husband be loading the truck?”
I told him my husband had left five years ago—and the cows hadn’t seemed to notice. I’ve been managing 240 acres ever since, from delivering calves at two in the morning to fixing irrigation systems and mending fences. But somehow, people still assume a woman can’t run a ranch.
Even neighbors underestimate me. Roy, who lives across the creek, drops by under the pretense of “checking in.” He’ll say things like, “Don’t overdo it, sweetheart,” while I’m out fixing his busted water line in the middle of winter.
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