Nod Your Head, Cowboy

The cool thing about being A. a contestant and B. at a small, local rodeo, you can get right down in the middle of the action. While watching, try to tune out the rodeo announcer and concentrate on the pickup men and gate man.

Notice the guy on the white horse. He's sitting as close as possible to the chute because the proximity of his horse helps keep the one in the chute calm. As soon as the cowboy is ready to nod for the gate he backs off to give the bucking horse room to fire.

This would be Cole Jacobs from my Texas Rodeo books. "I'll help you any way I can but don't be messing around on my horses. Get in, get down and nod your face."

And in Tougher in Texas you'll meet the fictional version of that white horse, who I named Salty. He's one of the best characters in the book.

**Addendum: you can also see that the ground was a little iffy due to a rainstorm a couple of days earlier. The committee did a great job getting the arena in shape overall but there were still a few slick spots and this horse seemed to have a gift for finding them.




For more info and where to buy Tougher in Texas visit my website at KariLynnDell.com

Win an Advance Copy of Tougher in Texas!

It's Almost Rodeo Time!

55 days until the release of the next book in my Texas Rodeo series, Tougher in Texas! It sounds like a long time but if your summer plans are anything like mine, it'll be the first of August before we know it.

Like the first two books Tougher centers around a fictional family of rodeo stock contractors, Jacobs Livestock. Well, sort of fictional. I grew up going to Montana rodeos produced by the very real Jacobs Rodeo company, and the name in the book is an intentional salute to a lot of great memories. Last weekend we went to what has been one of the first rodeos of the summer season for at least half of the years of my life, and I was able to catch a behind the scenes video that is an almost perfect replay of the opening of Tougher.

Almost perfect because the real crew does it flawlessly--but flawless doesn't make for a good story, so...

Here's the video, and the opening scene. Meet Cole Jacobs. And if you click on the link in the right tool bar and subscribe to my newsletter by Sunday, June 11th at midnight PDT, I'll toss your name in the hat for one of two signed Advanced Reader Copies of Tougher in Texas.

CHAPTER ONE

All of Cole’s problems would be solved if he just found a wife.

The thought popped into his head at the exact instant that a ton of bovine suddenly bellowed and kicked, slamming into the steel gate Cole was holding and knocking him flat on his ass. If Cole hadn’t stood six foot six, he probably would’ve lost some teeth. The gate caught him in the chest instead, and sent him sprawling in the dirt. His red heeler, Katie, barked once and launched herself at the bull to protect him, but Carrot Top just trotted off down the alley, more interested in checking the empty pens for leftover hay.

Cole scrambled to his feet and snarled as his gaze zeroed in on the bright-yellow cattle prod in the hand of one of the men who rushed to his aid. “What the fuck are you doing with that thing?”

The cowboy took a hasty step back, then another when Cole stalked toward him. “Just hurryin’ things along.”

“My stock moves just fine without a hotshot.” Cole made sure of it, training them from birth to handle easily.

The rodeo season was a cross-country marathon of long miles and strange places. Less stress equaled better performance, and even though the low-current buzz of the cattle prod was more startling than painful, Cole wanted his stock as relaxed as possible until the moment they exploded from the bucking chute. Carrot Top was an old pro. He’d earned the right to inspect the loading chute before setting hoof on the steep ramp.

And to come unglued when some asshole zapped him.

The cowboy ran out of room and backed up against the fence. Cole snatched the hotshot, busted it over his knee, and then tossed it back, the ends dangling by the wires that ran down the long shaft. "Pack that and the rest of your shit and get out of here.”

The cowboy clutched the broken prod to his chest, jaw dropping. “But I’m your pickup man.”

“Not anymore.”

Cole turned his back and strode down the alley to retrieve Carrot Top. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.

Half an hour later, his cell phone buzzed. He was tempted to ignore it, but she would only keep calling until he answered. There was a strong undercurrent of stubborn in the Jacobs gene pool. He heaved a deep sigh and put some distance between himself and the rest of the crew before he accepted the call, holding the phone three inches from his ear in anticipation of his cousin’s displeasure.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Violet yelled.

“He used a hotshot on Carrot Top.”

“So ban him from the stock pens. Hell, ban him from the whole rodeo grounds except when he’s working the performances, but did you have to fire him?”

“He used a hotshot on Carrot Top,” Cole repeated, slower this time.

“I understand. It was stupid. But what do you suggest we do next weekend when you’re the only pickup man in the arena?”

Cole hadn’t thought about that at the time. He’d been thinking about it since, but hiring contract personnel was Violet’s job. If she was here like normal, he wouldn’t have had to put up with a stranger. He wouldn’t have to put up with any of this crap. He could go back to just taking care of his stock and leaving all the people bullshit to Violet. He couldn’t say that, though, and as usual, his brain collapsed under pressure and offered up only the one sentence in his defense. “He used a hotshot on Carrot Top.”

Violet huffed out a breath so exasperated he swore he felt the breeze on his end of the line. “You do realize the doctor sentenced me to bed rest because my blood pressure is through the roof, right?”

Cole ducked his head, crushing a dirt clod with the toe of his boot. He wasn’t trying to aggravate anyone, especially Violet. She was command central for Jacobs Livestock. The hell she’d been going through had thrown all of them for a loop, Violet most of all. She hadn’t been sick a day in her first pregnancy, though Beni had decided to make an appearance six weeks early. She’d been prepared to be cautious and watchful. She had not expected to be sick as a dog practically from the moment she and Joe had seen the telltale line on the home pregnancy test.

Besides, Cole was almost as excited about the baby as its parents. He loved being Uncle Cole, and now a little girl? He grinned at the thought of a future full of ponies and pink cowboy boots—assuming his family didn’t string him up for driving Violet into another premature labor.

Cole huffed out a breath, leaning a shoulder against the back of the infield bleachers. Around him, the empty rodeo grounds looked like a hangover—garbage cans overflowed with empty bottles, corners of banners drooped along the fences, spilled popcorn and a smashed glob of cotton candy littered the ground. Katie nosed around under the bleachers and came out packing a half-eaten hot dog. It all looked ill-used and abandoned—sort of like Cole felt.

Yes, he had put them in a tight spot, but there were some things he wouldn’t tolerate when it came to his stock. Okay, many things. Obsessive-compulsive prick was another way of putting it, though only Joe dared say that to his face. He was family. Plus, he was a lot faster than Cole.

“Don’t try to say I didn’t warn you,” Violet said, her voice laced with grim amusement.

Cole froze. She couldn’t mean… “I thought you were kidding.”

“No, I was not, any more than I was kidding when I told you to make this one work, or else.”

Panic churned Cole’s gut. “Violet, you can’t. There must be somebody else—”

“I refuse to even ask. This makes three perfectly good pickup men you’ve chased off. If you can’t force yourself to get along, I’ll send someone you can’t fire.”

“Don’t. Please.” He didn’t hesitate to beg. If she followed through on her threat, he’d either be insane or under arrest by season’s end in September. “Just one more. I promise—”

“Nope. I’m done. If you can find a replacement before tomorrow morning, I’ll hire him. Otherwise…” He could hear her smirking, dammit. “Your new partner will meet you at Cuero.”

~~~

For more about Tougher in Texas AND handy dandy links to pre-order a copy of your very own, visit my website at: KariLynnDell.com/tougher

I Can Do It....

It's calving time. Actually, it's been calving time since the middle of February--first the pampered registered princesses, then the first calf heifers--so we've been watching this scene replayed over and over for two months--and this year it's on Cow Cam! We now have a remote-controlled infrared camera mounted in the rafters of our indoor arena/maternity ward. At 2 a.m. we could just stagger out of bed and into the porch to check the cows.

Now we've hit April, the weather has warmed up and the older, commercial herd is calving out in the pasture, where there are fewer germs to share but also so much space that doing night checks isn't feasible. I shove the husband and kid out the door at 6:30 every morning to make the twelve mile trip to the school bus, then I go drive around and check to see what happened overnight. It's sort of like hunting for Easter eggs, poking through the brush patches to see what I can find.

Unfortunately, calves aren't the only thing that's due. The fourth book in my Texas Rodeo series, Fearless in Texas, is supposed to land on my editor's desk by the end of the month and I am not exactly on schedule, so when I'm not wrangling or playing midwife I've been feverishly trying to pry words out of my brain, and reminding myself that I have, in fact, done this before. 

And trying not to be that guy who was recently arrested for taking his laptop out on the front lawn and shooting it. Five times. 

****

Cow Tech

A writer friend sent me an ad from the USPS, showing a rancher out in the field checking the status of his package on his mobile phone. She was highly amused at the idea. And then I had to go and burst her bubble because, yep, we walk around with a phone stuck to us like everyone else. Comes in pretty damn handy when you're a couple miles from the house and bury the tractor in a deep and steep dry wash you couldn't see because of the snow. And if that package happens to be the replacement whatchamajig for the hay baler that has us at a standstill, you can bet your boots we'll be checking to see when it's gonna get here.

Beyond communication and "Um, need a little help here", there are literally hundreds of applications for cell phones on farms and ranches. Computerized irrigation systems send alerts to a farmer's phone, letting him know if there are malfunctions, or if water levels need to be increased or decreased in particular parts of a field. We have an app that lets us enter data on newborn calves out in the field and creates a spreadsheet that tracks cow performance from year to year. And of course there are the podcasts and audiobooks that keep me from losing my sanity somewhere around load #127 of round bales.

But nothing since the invention of pickup trucks has revolutionized the rodeo industry like the cell phone. No more standing in a phone booth outside the cafe in Lavina, Montana, dialing and dialing and re-dialing, trying to get through on the always-busy line to the rodeo entry office. And now when they put you up in Thursday evening's performance when you're already scheduled to be at a rodeo 500 miles away, you can actually track down the people who are on the program for Friday night to try to find someone who'll trade you places. Plus, when you're at the Pendleton Roundup and you can't locate your traveling partner, instead of hiking all over the rodeo grounds to run him down, you just fire off a text that says, "Put down the drink, get out of the Let er Buck room and meet me at the rig in half an hour or I'm leaving without you."

***

Tiny Home on the Range

Since it's Throwback Thurday, I would just like all of you to know that we are SO far ahead of the curve on this whole tiny home craze. When we moved back to Montana we took up residence in the bunkhouse. Two adults, a toddler, a full grown Border collie in approximately 450 square feet. We survived the first six months with our minds and our marriage mostly intact, mostly because we arrived in the spring and spent a lot of time outside. But there was no way we were going through the winter with the kid sleeping on a futon in the kitchen.

The answer to our fervent prayers was a wooden granary built by my grandfather and mostly unused. Come fall, we shoveled out a pile of fertilizer from one side, a pile of old barley from the other (funny, you never see THAT on the home improvement shows) jacked the granary up onto a pair of telephone poles for runners and dragged it half a mile across the hayfield to set it on the concrete pad we'd poured for a floor.

We learned many things in this process. First, it was easier than you'd think to saw the old floor off and bolt the building to the concrete. Second, these old granaries are lined on the inside with plywood to resist the outward pressure of tons of wheat or barley. And my grandfather was a real over-achiever when it came to nailing on siding and roofing. Which was probably why the building was in such great shape, but we weren't feeling as thankful as we might have while we pulled out those ten thousand nails. Especially when the dust, grain chaff and mouse turds began raining down on our heads.

Also, because like most things the process took a bit longer than expected, I learned that when the temperature is hovering around zero, you don't hold that extra new nail in your mouth. Think tongues and flagpoles. Ouch.

But we finally got it stripped, insulated (six-inch walls in cold, windy country are AWESOME), wrapped in moisture/wind barrier and sided in particle board, at which point we could hack a couple of holes through into the old part of the bunkhouse and triple our square footage. We also added an attic so I could unload the last of our worldly possessions from the tack room of the horse trailer.

After a couple of years of the kid sleeping on a mattress in the living room, we added a wing with another bedroom and a porch, a quick three-year project. And last summer we decided to put on real siding (mostly because my mother was tired of looking at the peeling, faded particle board and offered to pay Dale and Richard Bird to come out and do the work.)

One of these days, I might even get around to doing something with those plywood interior walls.

**Note that the tractor is larger than the original bunkhouse.

Want more stories of the sublime and the ridiculous out here on the range? Subscribe to my newsletter, Rock Soup for the Cowboy Soul, by clicking on the gold button in the top right corner of my home page:  KariLynnDell.com

New and Free--Does it Get Any Better?

Getting published can be both the best and most frustrating experience of your life. Because YAY, an editor loves my book enough to take it on, but *SIGH* the waiting never ends, and patience? Not my greatest virtue.

As many of you know, I sold three book series (now semi-officially called the Texas Rodeo books because nothing is truly official until the book is actually printed) to Sourcebooks last November. Because these are rodeo books and the first is set in the summer, their marketing department strongly believes it'll sell best if released during the summer. BUT, there wasn't enough time to get it out there this year, which means waiting clear until next summer for the series debut, semi-officially titled Reckless in Texas, to hit the shelves.

Yes, dear readers, SHELVES. If all goes as planned you'll be able to pick this one up at your bookstore. Or even WalMart or your grocery story. But not my local grocery store (sorry people who live in my town) because I have it on supreme authority from a million-selling author that your book will never be on the shelves in your grocery store. It is an immutable law of the universe. 

In the meantime, people who've read and loved The Long Ride Home have been pestering me for something new. Since I finished the preliminary draft of Book Two of the Texas Rodeo series and have yet to get a real clue where to start Book Three (or possibly who the main characters will be), I dug out an old novella that I've always been rather fond of, gave it a serious tune-up, and posted it on Wattpad. 

For those who aren't familiar, Wattpad is like an online American Idol for writers. You put a story up and readers get to comment-- either on a particular line or at the end of the chapter--and they also get to vote at the end of each chapter, a sort of virtual thumbs up if you liked it. The more reads and votes you get, the more likely Wattpad will put your story on the front page of their website, which hopefully generates more reads and more votes and attracts brand new fans.

So, if you're looking for a quick, fun read and would like to help make me a star without having to hear me sing (believe me, none of us want that) come and join my Wattpad experiment. Read. Vote. And if you like it, use the Twitter, Facebook and other social media buttons to encourage your friends to come along for the ride. From a purely selfish standpoint, if you like my stuff, the more successful this experiment turns out, the more likely I'll make the time to do it again every three or four months until Reckless in Texas is released.

Here's the link to get you started: To Steal A Cowboy's Heart

Also, a huge ovation for Polly Icenoggle who took the cover photo. Is that awesome or what?

May Day!

As usual, Old Man Winter couldn't let us meander happily into spring without taking at least one more cheap shot. While the rest of you were prancing around in sombreros and sipping margaritas to celebrate Cinco de Mayo, I was wearing the bear and being pelted by the slushballs that pass for snowflakes in spring storms. They're so big and so wet my heavy canvas Carhartt coat was almost soaked through by the time we got back to house and I could wring water out of my snowpants and the hood of my sweatshirt.

We had one newborn calf that got chilled and didn't look like he'd had a good meal, so Greg and I headed out on the four wheeler towing our trusty calf rescue tub, otherwise known as a black plastic water tank. Of all the contraptions we've tried this simple little tank works the best.

The trick is to put the calf in something the cow isn't afraid of, where she can see and smell him. Then she'll follow wherever you take him (theoretically, anyway, barring the occasional fence post stupid cow that hasn't figured out she has a calf or would rather someone just take him off her hands). This is key because a cow that has just calved is near impossible to chase. You have to convince her to come along on her own.

So we dragged the calf down to the corral, put Mama in the squeeze chute, and tried to persuade Junior to have a bite to eat by prying his chattering teeth apart and stuffing a teat inside. He was a lot less cooperative than his mother, possibly because he was so cold and wet his jaws were locked from shivering, or possibly because he already had a bellyful. Either way he was chilled to the bone, so we loaded him in the pickup and hauled him home to warm up.

Then we went back to the house to dry off and warm ourselves and the power promptly went out. Ah, spring. I wish I could say this one was an exception but no, it's pretty much always like this.



Postscript: in case you noticed an excess of heavy breathing on the part of the camera person, you should know that in order to video this I had to jog along BEHIND the cow and four wheeler in Muck boots and full winter gear while being blinded by icy snow bullets. You see what I do for you? 


*

The Elders

*

Some of the posts on our ranch were set by my grandfather and his partner, Alec Knox, as early as the 1950's. With our relatively dry climate and rocky soil, some are still standing, like this one. You can see the grooves on the right side where the wood has been worn down by wires that were worked loose and whipped by the wind. This old guy has been around almost as long as the road that runs beside him, originally a wagon track that runs between our house and my cousin's place to the west.

In places the ruts are worn so deep the axles drag on our four wheel drive pickups. It's definitely not the interstate, but I'll take it anyway. 

Today's my day over at the other blog, so if you'd like to know why my husband has that black eye, tune in here:  For Worse...or Maybe Better

*

No Brain, No Pain

*

Last week my mother ran over my dog.

No need for sympathy cards, Max is fine. Mom was on the four-wheeler and only going about five miles an hour when a cow tried to hook the dog, who dodged around the front of the four wheeler. Then the cow went after the four wheeler and when Mom gassed it to escape the cow she hit the dog. Max gave one big yelp and ran all the way home, no sign of physical damage. Any emotional scarring appears to be solely on the part of my mother, because Max was right out there in front of the four wheeler again the next day.

Which leads me to wonder…does she have a very high tolerance for pain, or a very short memory? Either of which could easily be mistaken for inability to get a clue.

I’m leaning toward high pain tolerance, since the day after we got her spayed she took herself for a three mile rehab jaunt at her usual breakneck pace with no sign of discomfort. Maybe those spare parts were just slowing her down.

Weighing in on the other side of the argument, though, is a recent Saturday when I was packing the camper, requiring approximately eighty-seven trips in and out of the house in order to properly equip a family of three for a twenty four hour excursion. If we ever left for a whole week I’d have to start packing a month ahead of time. (Cue howls of laughter from my family as they contemplate the chances of me ever planning that far ahead). The dog was right on my heels every single step, even though I forgot and slammed her head in the door three times.

Which puts us firmly back in ‘too dumb to feel pain’ territory.

There was also the night we went for a walk up the gravel road. Max likes to run. Even better, she likes to chase things: birds, rabbits, gophers, imaginary beasties only she can see. Creatures that, despite her better than average speed, she doesn’t have a hope in Hades of catching. That night she took off after a grouse, making a big loop through the hay field, running flat out. She circled back, still flying when she hit the shoulder of the road.

Unfortunately, she misjudged the height of the gravel berm on the edge. It buckled her knees, took out her front legs. She skidded face first all the way across the road, looking up at me with an expression of utter What the heck? on her face. I swear she still thinks I tripped her.

When she finally stopped sliding she laid there for a moment, stunned. Then she jumped up, shook off the dust and bits of rock and bailed off the other side of the road in hot pursuit of a low-flying sparrow.

Last week, she and Greg headed out south to gather cows out of the neighbor's barley field because that knee deep alfalfa they were standing in was apparently getting boring. Halfway home, they jumped a coyote up out of the buck brush. 

And Max was off. 

Finally! Something she could catch! Which left Greg no choice but to floor the four wheeler on the off chance the coyote decided to stop, turn around and catch Max. He figures they were doing around twenty miles an hour when Max hit a badger hole and rolled end over end at least three times. He wasn't sure she was going to get up. When she finally got her air back, she staggered to her feet, looking a little embarrassed. She hopped on the back of the four wheeler and rode the rest of the way home. This time, he thought, she learned her lesson. 

Then they popped over the hill above the house and she spotted the whitetail doe and fawn that live in the trees behind the house. She launched off the back of the moving four wheeler and hit the ground running. 

The evidence doesn’t lie. We’re going to have to settle for the No Brain, No Pain theory.

*

Eye in the Big Sky

Two weeks ago, on our twenty four hour vacation, we rented a rowboat and went out and paddled around Lake McDonald. In my opinion, this view across the lake from Apgar Village has to be one of the most gorgeous on the planet. But that's not the only reason this picture fascinates me. You see, it was taken by a friend of mine.

Who was in Alabama at the time.

Welcome to the age of webcams. Some people think it's creepy to know someone might be watching them at any time (come to think of it, my husband still doesn't know he was on camera). Me, I think it's sort of cool that I could tap out a text message, zip it off across the country, and wave hello to someone I've only met in online writers' discussions. This particular camera takes a shot every thirty seconds. All she had to do was save the image and email it to me.

Voila! We finally got a picture with all three of us in it for a change!

There are a lot of awesome webcams around Montana, and they provide some incredible scenery. You can even watch Old Faithful geyser in Yellowstone Park erupt. See an occasional elk. Check the road conditions down by Alzada. The best collection of Montana and surrounding webcam links I've found is at the Big Sky Fishing website. And out of that list here are my two favorites:

Glacier National Park (Including the Lake McDonald cam that produced the picture above).

Montana State University  (User Controlled! I love these. If it weren't for the football stadium getting in the way, I could zoom this sucker right in on my sister when she has playground duty at her elementary school.)

So kick back and take a virtual tour of our wonderful Big Sky state on your holiday weekend!

What Was I Thinking?

Today it is seventy degrees and sunny where I used to live in Hermiston, Oregon. And here it is...not.

The good news is it's supposed to be sixty degrees by Friday. Which means I'll be wading around in water and mud up to my knees and all that stuff I'm standing in will be trying to run in my front door instead. Sigh. Ain't spring lovely?

The Difference of a Few Feet

People reading my posts and looking at my pictures have a tendency to assume that all of Montana--or at least the northern tier--is a snow bound tundra. This is not actually the case. The average snowfall changes dramatically when you leave our ranch and head downhill, which is every direction but west. Driving home from work last night (It was still daylight! Yay!) I took a few pictures to show what happens as you make the gradual climb, a gain of about eight hundred feet in altitude.

This is just outside of town, looking east. Notice there's almost no snow in the road ditches.

Halfway home you pass what was once a prehistoric island, back in the glacial lake days at the end of the last ice age. You can still find small mussel shells on the slopes of Chalk Butte and in the nearby clump of badlands, and the area has yielded some interesting fossils. Only ten miles down the road from the first picture and already there is a lot more snow.

Six miles from home, looking south across the valley formed by the south fork of the Milk River. Between here and our ranch you cross a large plateau that stretches north and south for a fair distance.

Dropping off the west side of the plateau, into the basin at the foot of the Rockies. Notice the amount of snow in the ditches? It isn't uncommon for us to get several inches of snow, while back up the road where the last photo was taken they barely get a dusting. As annoying as the snow can be, we get our payback in grass and water come summer.

All together, I traveled about forty-five miles as the crow flies between the first picture and the last. What a difference a few feet makes.