Wyoming Cowboy Quotes

Let’s just say Noah and Flynn enjoy the chase, and when they catch their woman, they keep her tied so she stays caught when they play.

So, you take no prisoners, huh?’ Flynn leaned in close. Her pulse clicked up a gear at the deliberate invasion of her personal space. ‘No, sweetie. We take prisoners, of the short, female variety. We just don’t fight fair when we catch ‘em.

Times may change, but I guess cowboys don't.

God loves you so much. There's nothing you can do that would make Him leave you.~ page 126

As the years progressed, he'd come to terms with the fact that he wasn't meant to be part of a loving family.

Her dreams had been crushed on a regular basis for as long as she could remember.

He wasn't important to anyone. The story of his life.

I'm just saying talking about the good times hurts less than trying to forget them.

Big and little they went on together to Molalla, to Tuska, to Roswell, Guthrie, Kaycee, to Baker and Bend. After a few weeks Pake said that if Diamond wanted a permanent traveling partner he was up for it. Diamond said yeah, although only a few states still allowed steer roping and Pake had to cover long, empty ground, his main territory in the livestock country of Oklahoma, Wyoming, Oregon and New Mexico. Their schedules did not fit into the same box without patient adjustment. But Pake knew a hundred dirt road shortcuts, steering them through scabland and slope country, in and out of the tiger shits, over the tawny plain still grooved with pilgrim wagon ruts, into early darkness and the first storm laying down black ice, hard orange-dawn, the world smoking, snaking dust devils on bare dirt, heat boiling out of the sun until the paint on the truck hood curled, ragged webs of dry rain that never hit the ground, through small-town traffic and stock on the road, band of horses in morning fog, two redheaded cowboys moving a house that filled the roadway and Pake busting around and into the ditch to get past, leaving junkyards and Mexican cafes behind, turning into midnight motel entrances with RING OFFICE BELL signs or steering onto the black prairie for a stunned hour of sleep.

So many of the men who came to the West were southerners— men looking for work and a new life after the Civil War—that chivalrousness and strict codes of honor were soon thought of as western traits. There were very few women in Wyoming during territorial days, so when they did arrive (some as mail-order brides from places like Philadelphia) there was a standoffishness between the sexes and a formality that persists now. Ranchers still tip their hats and say, "Howdy, ma'am" instead of shaking hands with me. Even young cowboys are often evasive with women. It's not that they're Jekyll and Hyde creatures—gentle with animals and rough on women—but rather, that they don't know how to bring their tenderness into the house and lack the vocabulary to express the complexity of what they feel.

Bevve un sorso di caffè e si sporse in avanti per ravvivare il fuoco, poi prese un libro dal tavolino e cercò di concentrarsi nella lettura. Tentativo patetico e inutile. Pensò allora a come sarebbe stato condividere il ranch con una donna, un pensiero che negli ultimi tempi ritornava spesso. Pensò a Renée che se ne era andata con Craig Haas. Pensò a Rosalyn, che gli riscaldava il corpo ma non il cuore. Poi pensò a Maggie. A come si era sciolta tra le sue braccia e a come si era sciolto lui quando l’aveva sentita fremere contro di sé.

Even if your all alone, God's still there. He loves you. and you don't have to be perfect. You can make mistakes. God still loves you. He'll never leave you. Even if you do the naughtiest thing ever, He still loves you and won't leave you (Amy to four-year-old Ruby)~ page 127

Disturbingly, modern technological society has allowed us all to become nature’s bubble children who artificially dwell in that vacuum of cerebral abstraction that we know simply as material culture. But of course our existence on the planet is not an abstraction. Human culture is not really the universe we live in. That we can so rigorously sustain the illusion that we are somehow removed from the forces that perpetuate and sustain life on this planet is a strong indictment of modern humanity’s separation from nature and hints that simple human reason and common sense might also be largely illusory.

I won’t let anyone talk to my wife that way, Gray said, his voice with a steely edge. I know that underneath that expensive tux you’re nothing but a mama’s boy sucking off your father’s money and looking for a wealthy woman to keep you doing nothing for the rest of your life. I just want you to understand that beneath my tux is a rough and tumble cowboy who will kick your ever-loving ass to hell and back if you ever talk about my wife in derogatory terms again.

Back at the oak the men lounged in the shade and finished up their meal. Watching Clayt down at the creek, Nestor threw out a quiet question for anyone who would listen. “How come Clayt don’t wear no spurs?” “Don’t need ’em,” Lou said. “You seen him ride. He can purty much control a horse with just his knees and neck-reinin’.” Nestor lay back and propped on both elbows. Lifting a leg, he turned one boot in profile and spun the rowel with the toe of his other boot. “Hell, I like the way it sounds when I walk.” Lou stood and brushed off his trousers. “He don’t need that neither.

The door clicked. She inhaled a tiny gasp. "You should use the deadbolt." "I was expecting you," she said. "I was afraid you might change your mind." "No, Reid. I haven't changed my mind. No games, right?" His hot gaze raked slowly up and down her body. He doffed his hat and tossed it on the chair. "You're a sight for sore eyes, Haley Cooper. His voice was low and husky, inciting tiny ripples deep inside her sex. He was in tight control, but his desire was palpable, like some powerful force that was about to unleash. He extended his hand. She approached with an intentional slow and seductive sway of her hips, shivering again as their gazes met and held. Oh dear God. All the foreplay she needed was right there, reflected in his blue eyes.

Maggie chiuse gli occhi e contò sino a dieci. Uno, due, tre… Se voleva arrivare a casa di sua sorella prima che facesse notte, non aveva altra scelta che chiedere al cowboy di accompagnarla. Certo, avrebbe sempre potuto optare per il motel e attraversare quelle duecento iarde pullulanti di lupi. Un altro ululato. No, non avrebbe potuto. «Lupi» disse Mitch, il braccio sinistro che sporgeva indolente dal finestrino, il mozzicone del sigaro stretto tra le dita. «Lupi» ripeté lei con un’alzata di spalle, come se si trattasse di barboncini addestrati. Poi mosse un paio di passi esitanti verso il pick-up. Quell’affare era così alto che dovette allungare il collo e sollevare la testa per parlare al cowboy. «Mi chiedevo…» mormorò vincendo ogni residua resistenza. Lui rimase immobile, se non per il sopracciglio sinistro che scattò verso l’alto. «… se per caso tu non potessi darmi uno strappo.» Lui finse di prendere in considerazione la cosa. Poi, con un altro sbuffo di fumo, disse: «Mi sembrava che avessi rifiutato la mia offerta, dieci minuti fa...». «Perché non intendevo esserti di disturbo» rispose lei come se si stesse rivolgendo alla duchessa di Kent. E di fatti lui scoppiò a ridere. «Essermi di disturbo? Dopo avermi assalito come un ninja? Ma sarò magnanimo. Dai, sali.» Maggie tirò un sospiro di sollievo. Era così stanca e infreddolita che anche quel pick-up scassato le parve per un istante una limousine. «Dove metto la valigia?» «Buttala dietro, nel cassone.» Buttare nel cassone la sua Samsonite rosa, costata una cifra improponibile? «Preferirei sistemarla in cabina, se non ti spiace.» «In cabina non c’è posto, qua dietro è pieno di roba. A meno che tu preferisca viaggiare nel cassone e la valigia sul sedile…» Lei rimase zitta, gli occhi sgranati, per nulla certa che quella fosse solo una battuta. «Ok, ci penso io» tagliò corto lui, aprendo la portiera e scivolando a terra con un balzo. Afferrò il trolley per la maniglia e, senza un’altra parola, lo fece volare nel cassone. Oh! Il botto risuonò nelle orecchie di Maggie come una granata. Risistemandosi lo Stetson sulla testa, il cowboy girò intorno al pick-up e con un sorriso esagerato aprì la portiera del passeggero. «Sali, sorella di Suzie, o vuoi che dia una mano anche a te?»

Soon we began to collect a little group of odd people who would drink with us every cocktail hour. Brigitte, who was a 22-year-old German, very beautiful, could have been on the cover of Stern magazine. Her boyfriend Volker was one of the most beautiful men I'd ever met - people said he looked like James Hunt, the English racecar driver. He was like Billy Budd. He was from Germany and had been a cowboy in Wyoming. Then there was Elford Elliot from England, who had something to do with producing garden gnomes. He was tripping on acid all the time and going out to Delos, this little island off Mykonos, chipping little pieces off the ancient ruins, which he then brought back in the pocket of his jumpsuit. Then there was Bryan, an IBM operator from Australia, who fancied himself as a kind of Oscar Wilde figure. I don't know why. The only story of his I remember was about some Australians who stole a garden gnome from the front lawn of a very elegant mansion and took it for a trip around the world. They would send postcards back to the owner saying things like, 'Having a lovely time in the Fiji Islands' and sign it, 'The Garden Gnome.' After six weeks, they brought the garden gnome back and left it on the lawn with little suitcases full of tiny clothing they'd knitted for it.

This is a no judgement zone.

Loving your job was great and all, but when people went home at five you were no longer on their radar.

He hated his brain. He hated that no matter the scenario he couldn't relax.

Some days cattle ranching feels like just fixing things that the cows break.

Here's the thing, Jaimi Hamilton. I've been looking for a woman for a long time, and I think you might be her.

Los Angeles County has more people than any of the forty smallest states, but its 10 million residents must share two senators with nearly 30 million other Californians. There are a remarkable 120 U.S. counties that have more people than the entire state of Wyoming. Yet the Cowboy State’s 581,000 citizens enjoy the same two votes in the Senate as the other forty-states do.

Deke smiled at the long, straight highway ahead of him. “Then again, I’d give it all up if I could have what Fiona and Jud have. Or Allie and Blake or Toby and Lizzy. All of them make my heart hurt to have someone to go home at night to like they do,” he said. “I should have listened to Granny Irene when she kept telling me that I couldn’t find a woman to settle down with in the bars.” Cheyenne, Wyoming, was bitter cold that night when he stopped at a small motel with a neon sign that said truckers were welcome. That usually meant they wouldn’t fuss about a dog, and besides it was past nine o’clock. The manager was most likely eager to rent out whatever rooms he could at that point. “Help you, sir?” An older lady looked up from the check-in desk. “Just need a room. Be out early in the morning, but I do have a dog. He’s housebroken and old, so he won’t cause any damage.” “Ten-dollar fee for any animals. It’s not one of those yippy little dogs, is it? I only got one room left and it’s right next door to an elderly couple. Wouldn’t want them calling me because your dog barked

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.

The average Texas cattle herd driven northward numbered 2,500 cows, composed primarily of hardy Texas longhorns, a breed that could travel long distances without water. A dozen cowboys, including a trail boss, along with 50–60 horses, four mules, and a chuck wagon (sometimes called a mess wagon) that hauled the food and bedding, accompanied the herd. Starting shortly after dawn, with a noon break, they moved about 15 miles a day. The trip could take from four to six months.

One source noted that monthly wages (with room and board) remained about the same during the 30-year period following the Civil War, with the typical cowboy earning around $30, a top hand receiving $40–$45, trail bosses paid $50–$60, and range foremen collecting the highest wage, about $125. As ranching developed following the open range period, the need for labor decreased due to fencing and the streamlining of operations.

Although the cowboy image is usually of a young white male, the reality is that an estimated one-third of them were black, Mexican, or Indian.

Do you know how we tell the difference between black bear and grizzly bear scat back in Wyoming? Black bear droppings have berries and the Grizzly bear droppings contain little bells and smell like pepper.

45-year-old Rebecca Leavitt Cirillo works with kids and families to provide them with opportunities. This committed family champion has been impactful to many young adults and children. When not engaging with families, Rebecca Leavitt Cirillo pursues her hobbies, such as hunting and fishing. She loves football and supports the Wyoming Cowboys Football Club.

Imagine if you looked different to every person who saw you. Not, like, some people thought you were more or less attractive, but one person thinks you're a sixty-five-year-old cowboy from Wyoming complete with boots and hat and leathery skin, and the next person sees an eleven-year-old girl wearing a baseball uniform. You have no control over this, and what you look like has nothing to do with the life you have lived or even your genome. You have no idea what each person sees when they look at you. That's what fame is like. You think this sounds like beauty because we sometimes say that beauty is all in the eye of the one beholding the beauty. And, indeed, we don't get to decide if we are beautiful. Different people will have different opinions, and the only person who gets to decide if I'm attractive is the person looking at me. But then there is some consensus about what attractive is. Beauty is an attribute defined by human nature and culture. I can see my eyes and my lips and my boobs when I look in a mirror. I know what I look like. Fame is not this way. A person's fame is in everyone's head except their own. You could be checking into your flight at the airport and 999 people will see you as just another face in the crowd. The thousandth might think you're more famous than Jesus. As you can imagine, this makes fame pretty disorienting. You never know who knows what. You never know if someone is looking at you because you went to college with them or because they've been watching your videos or listening to your music or reading about you in magazines for years. You never know if they know you and love you. Worse, you never know if they know you and hate you.

really

What in the seven hells do they feed the children in Wyoming? I can't believe I lost a fight to Carter fucking Caldwell—a holier-than-thou cowboy—who knocked me down without even breaking a real sweat.

He’d never been on a train before, although he’d flown many times. It was one thing to be admired by the tourists at the show, those families wearing the straw cowboy hats with colored bands reading Colorado, Texas, Wyoming, or Montana, but it was another thing to be stared at by people on the train. When one well-dressed man came up to Lyle and handed him a five-euro note and said something in French about “exploitation by the Americans” and “cultural imperialism” and something nasty about the past president, Lyle nodded solemnly and took the money. After the man left, Lyle winked at Jimmy and grinned. “George Booosh,” Lyle mocked. “He’s still money.” They emerged from the train at the station on Rue de Rivoli, the Tuileries Garden on their left and beyond them the Seine, behind them the Louvre. Ornate canyon walls of magnificent

Imagine if you looked different to every person who saw you. Not, like, some people thought you were more or less attractive, but one person thinks you’re a sixty-five-year-old cowboy from Wyoming complete with boots and hat and leathery skin, and the next person sees an eleven-year-old girl wearing a baseball uniform. You have no control over this, and what you look like has nothing to do with the life you have lived or even your genome. You have no idea what each person sees when they look at you. That’s what fame is like.

Il pastore augurò Buon Natale, il coro riprese a cantare e l’organo a suonare. Fu in quel momento che Maggie sentì che lui era vicino. Si girò appena e lo vide. Se ne stava in piedi nel corridoio centrale, a qualche passo da lei, lo Stetson fra le mani, un’espressione indecifrabile sul volto. Il sangue prese a correrle troppo veloce nelle vene e, per quanto faticasse ad ammetterlo, si sentì così felice che un sorriso le illuminò il volto, come se lui fosse tornato a casa dopo un lungo viaggio. Già, quale casa? Mitch, invece, rimase di pietra, come se la chiamata di Maggie non fosse che un’altra scocciatura da risolvere. Il sorriso si spense poco per volta sulle labbra di Maggie e gli occhi, prima ridenti, si strinsero in uno sguardo interrogativo. Se il cowboy preferiva che fra loro ci fosse il gelo, che gelo fosse. Non era obbligata a sorridergli, in fondo, né a far conversazione. Lo avrebbe solo ringraziato per il passaggio e poi, estranei come prima. Mitch le fece cenno con la testa di seguirla e, senza neppure aspettarla, ruotò su se stesso e si incamminò verso l’uscita del tempio. Maggie sentì il suo amor proprio reagire all’atteggiamento scostante di Mitch, ma decise di fingere un’indifferenza e una calma che non provava; si prese il tempo necessario per ringraziare i signori Curtis e per salutare le altre persone che, come lei, erano in fila verso l’uscita.

Imagine if you looked different to every person who saw you. Not, like, some people thought you were more or less attractive, but one person thinks you're a sixty-five-year-old cowboy from Wyoming complete with boots and hat and leathery skin, and the next person sees an eleven-year-old girl wearing a baseball uniform. You have no control over this, and what you look like has nothing to do with the life you have lived or even your genome. You have no idea what each person sees when they look at you. That's what fame is like. You think this sounds like beauty because we sometimes that beauty is all in the eye of the one beholding the beauty. And, indeed, we don't get to decide if we are beautiful. Different people will have different opinions, and the only person who gets to decide if I'm attractive is the person looking at me. But then there is some consensus about what attractive is. Beauty is an attribute defined by human nature and culture. I can my eyes and my lips and my boobs when I look in a mirror. I know what I look like. Fame is not this way. A person's fame is in everyone's head except their own. You could be checking into your flight at the airport and 999 people will see you as just another face in the crowd. The thousandth might think you're more famous than Jesus. As you can imagine, this makes fame pretty disorienting. You never know who knows what. You never know if someone is looking at you because you went to college with them or because they've been watching your videos or listening to your music or reading about you in magazines for years. You never know if they know you and love you. Worse, you never know if they know you and hate you.

All my life, I’ve loved stories. My children did too— is there a child who doesn’t? Through the years, I read aloud all the books of the Narnia Chronicles, The Hobbit, and The Lord of the Rings to my kids. Curled up on the couch or on their beds, we got lost together in those fabulous tales. We read Kidnapped, The Black Arrow, and Treasure Island. On a driving trip through Nebraska, Wyoming, and the Dakotas, down through Utah and into Arizona, we plowed through a slew of Louis L’Amour’s books as the very landscape of those punchy little cowboy yarns slid past the van windows.

Other acts that were precursors of the Wild West were a July 4 commemoration in Deer Trail, Colorado, in which one Emil Gardenshire was crowned "Champion Bronco Buster of the Plains," and another Fourth of July celebration in Cheyenne, Wyoming, in 1872, featuring the riding of an unruly steer. And certainly Cody's buffalo hunt with Grand Duke Alexis was a harbinger of things to come, as were his hunting trips with General Sheridan, James Gordon Bennett and their friends, as well as the Earl of Dunraven. All that was needed, then, was to put the right elements together. Cody realized that he needed to earn a lot of money to launch a big show, and he was too proud to ask his wealthy friends for funds. Then, in the spring of 1882, he met Nate Salsbury, when they both were playing in New York. Salsbury, who later became Cody's partner, claimed to have thought of the idea of the Wild West when returning from a tour of Australia with the Salsbury Troubadours in 1876. On the boat he had discussed the merits of Australian jockeys in comparison with American cow-boys and Mexican vaqueros with J. B. Gaylord, an agent for the Cooper and Bailey Circus. As a result, said Salsbury, "I began to construct a show in my mind that would embody the whole subject of horsemanship and before I went to sleep I had mapped out a show that would be constituted of elements that had never before been employed in concerted effort in the history of the show business." In the end, of course, Buffalo Bill's Wild West went well beyond horsemanship to embody features of the West that had not been part of Salsbury's plan. Several years later Salsbury "decided that such an entertainment must have a well known figure head to attract attention and thus help to quickly solve the problem of advertising a new idea. After careful consideration of the plan and scope of the show I resolved to get W.F. Cody as my central figure." When the two men finally met,

boom rolls over the terrain but stops sharply in a close-ended way, as if jerked back. A hit is blunt and solid like an airborne grunt. When the sound is heard and identified, it isn’t easily forgotten. When Wyoming Game Warden Joe Pickett heard the sound, he was building a seven-foot elk fence on the perimeter of a rancher’s haystack. He paused, his fencing pliers frozen in midtwirl. Then he stepped back, lowered his head, and listened. He slipped the pliers into the back pocket of his jeans and took off his straw cowboy hat to wipe his forehead with a bandanna. His red uniform shirt stuck to his chest, and he felt a single, warm trickle of sweat crawl down his spine into his Wranglers. He waited. He had learned over the years that it was easy to be fooled by sounds of any kind outside, away from town. A single, sharp crack heard at a distance could be a rifle shot, yes, but it could also be a tree falling, a branch snapping, a cow breaking through a sheet of ice in the winter, or the backfire of a motor. “Don’t confirm the first gunshot until you hear the second” was a basic tenet of the outdoors. Good poachers knew that, too. It tended to improve their aim. In a way, Joe hoped he wouldn’t hear a second shot. The fence wasn’t done, and if someone was shooting, it was his duty to investigate.

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