I don’t usually let strangers get to me—but that morning, I came closer than I care to admit.
It started at the feed store.
I was grabbing mineral blocks and fencing wire, dressed like I always am: mud-streaked boots, worn jeans, my long blonde braid tucked under a sun-bleached ball cap. The guy behind the counter looked at me like I’d wandered in by mistake.
“Need directions to the gift shop, ma’am?” he asked, smiling.
I smiled back—tight and tired. “Nope. Just here for the same supplies I’ve been buying every week for the past ten years.”
He laughed. Then followed it up with, “Will your husband be loading the truck?”
That one landed hard.
I told him my husband left five years ago. Funny thing is, the ranch kept running just fine without him. I manage 240 acres on my own. I pull calves in the middle of the night, fix water lines in freezing weather, and haul hay before most people finish their first cup of coffee.
But apparently, blonde hair still confuses people.
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