Cowgirls Don't Cry

A bead of sweat runs down my temple. The humid air clings to me like an ever-present horse blanket, but I’m not sure it’s the heat and humidity that is making me sweat. Today is the day I’ve been preparing for and dreading for quite some time. I’m not sure I’m ready for it.

I walk from the house to the old barn behind a grove of trees. As I look at it, memories fill my mind—some good, some bad. My wife and I bought this land with the farmhouse and the barn when my daughter was just a year old. We fell in love with the land. By the time my daughter was three, we had three horses, a herd of cows, and an acre-sized garden on our land.

My daughter loved the land too. I grin when I think back on some of her antics. She must have been four when I found her one day, crying by the barn. I hurried over to make sure she wasn’t hurt.

“Baby girl, what’s wrong?” I asked quickly. “Are you hurt?”

She looked up with big tears coming down her round cheeks.

“They—they won’t,” she gasped between cries, “play with me!”

I shook my head and sighed. “Who won’t play with you?” I questioned.

“The kitties!” she cried. She’d been chasing around barn cats for days. Anytime they heard her open the door, they darted for an exit.

“It’s ok. Shhh.” I tried to calm her down as I knelt by her. “Don’t you know cowgirls don’t cry? They wipe their boots off and ride into the sunset.” She looked at me with those big brown eyes of her mother’s.

“I’m a cowgirl?” she asked.

“Sure you are! Now, if you calm down, I can show you how to wrangle barn cats.”

“Yay!” she yelled as her tears dried up.

I took her to the house and picked up two cans of tuna. We walked back, hand in hand. I put an opened can on the ground outside of the barn tack room where she could look out the window into the rest of the barn.

“Come in here, and we’ll wait,” I told her. I set her up on a saddle to let her watch while I worked.

After a bit, she hollered, “They’re here!” and tried to get off the saddle.

“Hush,” I urged and kept her on the saddle. “Let them eat.”

We sat there and watched as the cats came, ate, and began playing. She squealed when she saw the kittens chasing each other.

“Now, follow me—slowly and quietly,” I emphasized. She nodded her little head.

As we walked out of the room, I opened the other can of tuna. Most of the cats bolted, but a couple stayed.

“Sit down,” I ordered, and she sat. I gave her the can of tuna.

“They’re going to come to you, but don’t move or talk. Ok?”

Again, she nodded. I walked back into the tack room to finish my work. I looked over after a few minutes. The cats started tiptoeing to her, taking a small bite, and running back off. When the container was almost empty, I walked back out.

“Ok, now tomorrow, we’re going to do the same thing,” I said as I picked her up.

“But they didn’t play with me,” she whimpered as the tears were about to begin.

“Just wait, Cowgirl. You’ll see.”

It took two weeks before she was finally able to pet some of the cats. The kittens were her favorites.

Another time when my daughter was about ten, we had a mare who was about to deliver her first foal. The foal wasn’t situated correctly, and because of it, I would need to watch my horse like a hawk and call the vet if anything went amiss. I was about to walk to the barn when my wife stopped me.

“Can you take our daughter with you?” she asked, as our three-year-old son grabbed at her shirt.

“Why?” I asked.

“She’s had a rough day and it’ll help get her mind off it,” she stated, as she walked our son to the kitchen. “And I’ve got my hands busy with this one.”

“But I—” I stopped. I knew she needed this, or she wouldn’t have asked.

I called upstairs for my daughter, saying I needed her help. After a few minutes, she slowly walked down the stairs.

“I don’t wanna help,” she mumbled.

“Too bad,” I said hurriedly. “Let’s go.” She pouted, but eventually, she put on her boots.

As we walked outside, I noticed she was crying.

“You shouldn’t be crying about helping me,” I said rather sternly. I was impatient to get to the barn and get this foal delivered.

“I’m not crying about that,” my daughter replied with sass.

“Then whatcha’ crying about? Tell me.” I ordered with a hint of annoyance.

“Fine,” she snapped back. “My friend told a lie about me, and we fought. We aren’t friends anymore.”

“That’s it?” I asked incredulously.

“Da-a-ad!” she whined as only pre-teen daughters can. “She’s been my friend forever, and she really hurt me! I’m never gonna have a best friend again.”

“Stop that right now,” I told my daughter as we entered the stall. “There are bigger fish to fry like this horse. She is having issues, not you. You will make another friend.”

“But—” she started crying.

“Cowgirls don’t cry. They wipe their boots off and ride into the sunset.” I snapped. “And I need my cowgirl to focus and help me deliver this foal.”

She looked shocked. “What foal?”

I cursed under my breath. “The one that is about to pop outta’ this mare, Lord willing. Get me a bucket of water while I lay out some hay.”

My daughter glanced between the mare and me then nodded fast and left. While she was gone, I thought about my words. I was too hard on her, but I had an idea to cheer her up.

Soon she came back with a full bucket. “Tell ya what,” I suggest, “if this foal comes out without issues, he or she can be your new best friend.”

She gasped. “Really?!”

“Yep,” I said with a laugh.

That night, I taught my daughter about how life comes with pain and joy. She was a trooper as she stayed with me until about three in the morning when the little filly was born. She stayed up a bit more watching the foal bond, nurse, and even take a few wobbly steps towards us. I looked down at one point and saw my little cowgirl asleep near the bale of hay next to the stall. I secured the stall door and then picked my daughter up. I thought back to when I first held her in the hospital. I walked her back up to the house, up the stairs, and onto her bed. I managed to get her boots off and pulled a blanket over her. Before I went to bed myself, I leaned over and gave her a soft little kiss on her forehead.

That was one of my favorite moments as my daughter grew up with this old barn, but there were some hard times too. When she turned 17, she got the thing that most fathers hate the most—a boyfriend. I tolerated the boy, but I especially hated it when he came over for dinner. Many times, I would go for a walk after dinner so I didn’t have to listen to them cooing over each other. On one such winter night, I took a walk but realized I left some unfinished work in the barn. I saw the door was open just slightly, and as I went through I heard the sound of kissing. I felt sick to my stomach.

“I love you,” I could hear my daughter.

“I love you too,” muttered the boy. I felt like I was going to retch and went back outside. No amount of work was worth that torture.

“What are you doing?” I suddenly heard my daughter say. I stopped with my mind racing.

“You’ll enjoy it,” he stated. I re-entered the barn, wondering if I could go to jail for beating this boy.

“Stop!” she yelled. I began running, but as I got to the end of the barn, I heard a smack and saw a figure stumble out of a stall onto the ground.

“You bitch!” the boy hollered on the ground. “You broke my nose!”

“Hey!” I yelled, “You’d better be glad that is the only thing that is broken!”

He jumped up and ran past me. I was going to run after him, but I heard my daughter crying.

“Are you ok?!” I asked quickly. I looked her over as she tried to hold it together. She didn’t seem hurt, thank God.

“Daddy, I—,” but then she began sobbing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what he was trying to do. I—” My hug cut her off.

“Shhhh, baby girl, it’s ok,” I muttered as I hugged her. “You’re ok.”

“I know you must be so mad at me.” she cried.

“Honey, I’m not mad.” I partially lied. I wasn’t mad at her, but if it wasn’t for me holding her, that boy’s ass would’ve been grass.

She cried a bit more. “I feel so embarrassed,” she muttered into my shirt. I could feel her relaxing a bit, so I tried to lighten the mood.

“I’ll forget about it on two conditions,” I told her.

“What are they?” she muttered.

“First, don’t talk to that boy again unless you want your old man in jail.”

She laughed a bit. “Done. What’s the next one?”

“Remember that you’re a cowgirl, and cowgirls don’t cry—especially after breaking up with a guy like that,” I told her with a smile. “What do cowgirls do instead?”

She smiled back and replied, “They wipe their boots off and ride into the sunset.”

“That’s right. Let’s get you inside and your mom won’t hear about this. Just say that little prick is history.” I gave her another quick hug and let her compose herself. She followed me to the barn door (after saying a quick goodnight to her horse), and we walked back to the house.

Thankfully she never did speak to that boy again, but it didn’t stop other ones from chasing her. She finally met a man in college who didn’t bother me when he came to dinner, and I could tell my daughter was happy with him. My wife and I came to the decision that if he ever asked permission for my daughter’s hand, I’d give it to him—which he did in the barn about a year ago.

Today, as the sun is setting, they are getting married. I’ve never seen the old barn look so different with the twinkling lights and flowers hanging on the stalls.

“You ready, Daddy?” I hear my daughter’s voice behind me.

I turn around to see my baby girl who somehow overnight became this lovely woman in front of me. She looks as beautiful as her mother on our wedding day, and I’ve never felt so proud—or so lost. As I look into her brown eyes, my vision gets blurry, and I cry. I feel her arms wrap around me.

“Don’t you know that cowboys don’t cry?” she softly says as she tries to hold back tears herself.

“They do when their cowgirl is going to ride into the sunset,” I reply as I laugh and compose myself.

“I wouldn’t be the cowgirl I am today without you.” I look into her bright, smiling face.

“I love you, my little cowgirl,” I say as I stand next to her and put her arm in mine.

A violin and guitar start playing in the barn.

“I love you too, Daddy,” she tells me as we walk towards the barn and the sunset.