Wyoming Best Quotes

On the best nights, he’d appear outside the bookstore window and wait for me to unlock the door. He usually hadn’t had time to shower between doing things with cattle and horses and coming to find me, and he looked older than us and stronger than us.

How silly of her not to realize that strongest friends make the best enemies; they always know where the weaknesses are hidden.

When I come back, we'll pretend like this never happened. We'll head to Wyoming and get back to what we do best.' Annie had no idea what it was that they did best; the two of them together seemed below average in all categories.

Riot comes up in a quiet whirl of flames stirring on the concrete floor. They build into a small burning tornado that solidifies into thousands of pounds of smoldering horse. Broad. Red. All raw power. If he were a real horse, he’d be a medium draft horse, or a warmblood. Not a Budweiser Clydesdale, but you wouldn’t see him winning the Kentucky Derby, either. The guys joke because he’s the biggest of our mounts. A lightweight tank with an attitude. But he’s the greatest companion. The best. I can’t even picture what my life was like before he came along. His amber eyes find me first, then look around, checking things out, eventually coming back to me. I smile. It’s not that I hear his thoughts. It’s more that I know them. Bad day, Gideon? That’s too bad. But I’m here now so you’ll be better. Hey, nice view. “Come here, horse,” I say, but I’m the one who goes to him. I call up my armor so I don’t have to be careful about burning my clothes. Then I bury my hands deep into his mane, sending a shiver of embers into the night sky. He makes a low deep sound, telling me he’s listening. That I can tell him what I’d never say to anyone, not even Marcus. “I screwed up, Riot. Didn’t stick with the plan. Said some really stupid things. Really stupid.” Ohhh. That’s not good, Gideon. But it happens. Especially with Daryn. Don’t worry. Tomorrow you’ll do your best and try to fix it. I like Wyoming. I laugh. Then I let my face fall forward, and rest my forehead on his broad neck. Letting his fire spread over me, and through me, and around me. Warm. True. Like peace.

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will care for you,” that silken, deep voice promised. “I will see you through this.” Isn’t real, isn’t real, isn’t real, Kira continued to chant in her mind. Nothing this intense could be real. And through the exploding sounds of the engines, the vibrations from the floor, that rush of pain and bliss ebbing and cresting within her, the liquid ecstasy streaming down her throat, and the shocks she felt each time Mencheres touched her, she heard his voice again. “Forgive me.” Mencheres watched Kira’s face as he lay next to her in bed. She hadn’t stirred since dawn. The first rays of sunlight had caused her to fall deeply asleep, as it did to all new vampires. Her sleeping made it easier during their time in the human-laden areas, such as the private airport his plane landed in and the cars alongside him on the drive to his house in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Mencheres had chosen this location with care. His nearest neighbors were at least a mile away in every direction, and Gorgon had attended to the immediate relocation of the humans staying there once they arrived. Fewer sounds, temptations, and restrictions near Kira was best as she dealt with her new condition.

Once we finally get rid of the Christians, we can be free to do what we want without criticism. Just how many camps do we have, if someone could refresh my memory?” “Mr. President, we have one hundred camps, some states have more than two, while the Great Plains states, along with Colorado, Wyoming, and Montana having none of those facilities. Most of the governors have no idea they’re there, and we plan on keeping it that way,” answered Griffiths. “Why aren’t there ones in the Great Plains states?” “For one, there are not enough residents in flyover country to bother with. Secondly, we can cut off food and other supplies to them simply by stopping freight trucks and trains when the TSA shuts down the interstates, highways, and railroads. Starving them seemed like the best option,” answered Evans.

Molly moved to the mirror and gazed at her reflection. Should she be congenial and welcoming at this first meeting? She had no experience with subterfuge and underhanded schemes, but that did seem as if it would be the best way to achieve her desired end. Could she fool Mr. Ludgrove into believing she was glad he had come to Wyoming? “I must,” she whispered. “There’s no other way.” She would put on this fancy gown, sweep up her hair on her head, and act the perfect and proper lady for the evening, all the while looking for where this man from Iowa might be most vulnerable, most easily driven back to whence he came.

Whatever the reason for their choices, too many country men saw the best years of their lives melt with the ice cubes in the bottom of an empty whiskey glass.

I was confident that we could negotiate the rough coral, having done it several times before. But not this time. A coral head knocked off one of the tracks. There we were, helplessly immobilized some fifty to one hundred yards from dry land, unable to go one way or another, inaccessible by boat. My experience with previous track problems assured me that its repair would be at least a two-hour job. Admiral King, at his best, was not an easy-going man. When he understood the situation it took him only a moment to address a few plain words to me -- words not intended to contribute to my long-term peace of mind. Then, without hesitation, he clambered over the side -- starched white uniform and all -- followed by his aide, who was not happy either. They waded ashore to the accompaniment of the admiral's cursing, thumbed a ride to the dock two miles away, and finally made their way back to the Wyoming. Members of the staff told me later that the admiral was still enraged when he boarded the ship, making his feelings known to General Smith loudly and without restraint. The general, in a living disclaimer of his nickname, "Howling Mad," never reproved me.

Asleep at the wheel nearly dead I think and feeling nothing on my skin but the dark eyes of the antelopes all around me in the Wyoming night watching me pass—a small animal growling down the highway with both eyes aglow. To keep awake I force my head out the window as into a guillotine the black sleet-filled air slipping under each eyelid like a child’s thin silver spoon. Looking back into the car through the ice and tears I do not recognize that body sleeping there. I no longer know that leg pressed hard to the gas, the blue coat or scarf or the hand reaching out to the wheel. Folks, you know I am doing my best— pushing hard toward you through this winter sky but reduced to this— just this head out a window streaming through space like a bearded rock, a hunk of pocked iron with melting eyes. A trail of fiery mist is growing out of the back of my head and stretches now for miles across the night. The odds, I know, are a thousand to one I'll burn up before touching earth but if somehow I do make it home smashing across the farmyard and lighting up the sky I will throw a red glow across the barn's silver roof and crash into the rough wood of your back door smaller than a grain of sand making its one childlike knock. The porch light will hesitate then snap on, as it always does when a car comes up the lane late at night. The two sleepy old faces will come to the door in their long soft robes— will stand there bewildered rubbing their eyes looking around and wondering who it was at their door no sooner come than gone a cinder in the eye.

Finding the best view of the Absarokas in Wyoming meant riding my quarter horse to the crowned, windy summit of Whiskey Mountain. To climb in