I don’t usually get riled up about strangers, but today? I damn near snapped.

It started at the feed store. I was picking up mineral blocks and fencing wire, wearing my usual—mud-caked boots, faded jeans, and yeah, my long blonde braid tucked under a beat-up ball cap. The guy at the counter gave me this look like I was lost. Asked if I needed directions to the gift shop.

I said, “Nah, just here to buy the same stuff I’ve been buying every week for ten years.”

I told him my husband left five years ago and the cows didn’t seem to care. I run 240 acres on my own. Fix broken water lines, birth calves at 2 a.m., haul hay like it’s nothing. But people still see the blonde hair and the woman part and just… assume.

Even my neighbors treat me like I’m playing rancher. Roy, the guy across the creek, keeps “checking in” on my fences like I didn’t graduate top of my ag science class. He’ll say things like, “Don’t overwork yourself, sweetheart.” Meanwhile, I patched his busted water line last winter in the middle of a snowstorm.

I try to let it roll off, but it builds up. You get tired of proving yourself twice just to be seen as half capable.

Then today, after all that, I got home and found a letter nailed to my barn door. No stamp. No return name. Just a folded-up note that said one thing:

“I know what you did with the west pasture.”

I read those words about five times. They hit me like a stiff wind at the top of the ridge. The west pasture’s my pride and joy—thirty acres of grazing land that I’ve been painstakingly restoring for nearly a year. When my ex-husband left, the fence lines were trashed, soil was eroded, and there were gaping holes where we had tested out some half-baked irrigation plan. I poured my heart into that patch, reseeding it, fertilizing, and fixing the water system so the grass would come back strong. Now it’s lush and green as any photograph in a ranching magazine.

I couldn’t imagine what “I know what you did with the west pasture” was supposed to mean. Maybe it was some prank by local teenagers. Or maybe Roy left it, trying to get me rattled. The man’s about as friendly as a prickly pear sometimes, but writing ominous notes isn’t exactly his style. Then again, I couldn’t think of anyone else with enough interest in my operation to leave a cryptic message on my barn.