Starting Over: Reinvesting in the Fold, Reclaiming the Farm

If you’ve followed our journey for any amount of time, you know cattle aren’t just livestock to us—they’re family, legacy, and lately, healing.

I want to share how three Highland heifers quietly changed the trajectory of our lives after the murder of my dad, Beauford Wilson—and why we’re choosing to reinvest in the farm instead of walking away.

For over a decade, our family raised Highlands on our small Ozarks farm, originally known as AAA Quality Cattle. For my dad, the farm was an antidote to a loud, socially demanding career as a herbicide salesman. Out here, he found peace. He pulled weeds by hand. He studied bloodlines. He obsessed—in the best way—over the fold he and my mom carefully built.

He’d roll up to the farm in his big blue truck with treats: watermelon, apples, bananas… and yes, sometimes Olive Garden breadsticks or gingerbread houses. The cattle knew the sound of that truck. So did we.

Beauford Wilson in Feb 2023 giving Amber, Buttercup and a steer a treat with Fred Christman.

In the summer of 2024, our world shattered. Beauford was killed near the family farm in an intentional homicide. Grief hit us in waves—anger, fear, disbelief—but one emotion surprised us most: the instinct to run. The farm suddenly felt like the epicenter of loss.

Out of obligation more than courage, I forced myself back to the farm with my mom and husband to check cattle. We drove Dad’s blue truck to the corner field, and before we even parked, three young Highland heifers came charging full speed to the fence like they’d been waiting all day.

We fed them. We scratched them. We stayed until sunset pushed us home.

Those three—who we later named Sam, Buttercup, and Amber—became our constant. During the early court proceedings, our days followed a pattern: courthouse in the morning, farm in the afternoon. Courtroom grief, then muddy boots and cattle hair. They grounded us.

Emily visiting Buttercup, Amber and Sam in January 2025.

The trio had been intentionally separated into the corner field for breeding, but truthfully, we didn’t know much about them. Like many cattle families, we’d relied on nicknames (“Hamburger the Fourth” being a personal favorite 😅). Records existed, but not in the way they needed to—especially now that Dad was gone.

By late August, after one especially heavy court day, I convinced my brother and husband that what we really needed was cute cattle photos. Hats. Flowers. Social-media-worthy moments.

Buttercup ate the flowers.

Amber stole the hat and ran.

Sam stood there judging us all.

And for the first time in weeks, we laughed—really laughed.

That was the turning point.

Still, reality set in. No one could replace how Dad ran the farm. We had to make hard decisions. We sold our trusted herd bull—and took a long, honest look at the future of the fold.

Instead of stepping away, we chose to reinvest.

We reached out to the Highland community, and they showed up in ways we’ll never forget. With their encouragement, we renamed the farm Highland Dale—a symbolic first step in starting over with intention instead of fear.

Sam in August 2025 with the larger fold.

Sam, Buttercup, and Amber have now been reunited with the larger fold, and with DNA testing underway, we’re working to trace their maternal lines properly. This isn’t just paperwork—it’s stewardship.

I truly believe Dad separated those three heifers for a reason. They carried us when we couldn’t carry ourselves. They gave us a reason to show up, to keep the gates closed, and to keep believing this farm still had a future.

If you want to follow along as we rebuild, register the fold, and continue the search for their biological dams, you can join their growing fan clubs at 👉 www.highlanddale.life Subscribers access blog updates, behind-the-scenes insight into our herd management decisions, and continuing reflections as Highland Dale continues to take shape.

This is our story of starting over—rooted in cattle, community, and choosing to stay.

Thanks for walking it with us.