“You need directions to the gift shop, ma’am?”
I smiled without humor. “Nope. Just here to buy what I’ve been buying every week for the past ten years.”
He laughed. Actually laughed. Then came the kicker. “Will your husband be loading the truck for you?”
I told him my husband left five years ago—and funny thing, the cows didn’t seem to mind. I run 240 acres alone. I birth calves at 2 a.m., patch busted water lines in snowstorms, and haul hay like it’s my morning coffee. But folks still see blonde hair and a ball cap and assume I’m playing rancher.
Even my neighbors do it. Roy, the guy across the creek, likes to “check in” on my fences like I didn’t graduate top of my ag science class. “Don’t overwork yourself, sweetheart,” he always says. Never mind that I’m the one who fixed his water line last winter.
Usually, I let it roll off. But it piles up. You get tired of proving yourself twice just to be seen as half-capable.
Then I got home and saw it: a note nailed to my barn door. No stamp. No return name. Just a single line written in blocky pen:
“I know what you did with the west pasture.”
