Trudy Myrland spends her days wrangling cattle, dogs, and occasionally grandchildren—though not always in that order, and usually not successfully. She’s a wife, mother, stepmother, grandmother of fourteen, and great-grandmother of four, which technically makes her qualified to run a small village—or a large-scale circus, depending on the day. She swears she doesn’t play favorites, but every grandkid knows better and keeps detailed charts to prove it.

Home is a seven-generation ranch sprawled across 5,200 acres on the Idaho–Montana line, where Wi-Fi is optional but chaos is mandatory. The ranch is home to over 2,000 head of Black Angus cattle, 43 Appaloosa horses, 8 mules, 12 pigs, 4 goats (still a mystery), 40 chickens, 8 ducks, 10 cats, and at least 18 spoiled dogs—not counting the Yorkies and Goldens who believe they own the place. Strays don’t wander onto her land; they apply for full-time positions with benefits and regular belly rubs.

When Trudy isn’t herding something with hooves or fur, she’s deep in the woods gathering huckleberries, blackberries, elderberries, and mushrooms that could end up in a pie—or an emergency room visit. She hunts deer, elk, bear, and moose, proving that “grocery shopping” is just cardio with better scenery. Her idea of fishing is less about patience and more about bragging rights, and she’s been known to out fish every man within shouting distance (and she makes sure they hear about it).

Her creativity is as untamed as her livestock. She crochets Afghans that could double as quilts, sails, or Yorkie fortresses. She plays guitar, fiddle, banjo, steel guitar, box-top guitar, and whatever else looks playable at the moment. If it’s got strings, she’ll strum it. If it doesn’t, she’ll add some. Between diamond painting, music-making, and livestock diplomacy, Trudy has enough hobbies to qualify as a small-town arts council all by herself.

But her biggest mischief happens on paper. She started writing at twelve—back when her spiral notebooks were top secret, and her biggest fear was someone reading her “serious fiction” about haunted chickens. Decades later, those notebooks have evolved into an empire of humor, heart, and unholy laughter. Her characters may be ghosts, outlaws, or drunk philosophers, but they all have one thing in common: they talk too much and refuse to die quietly.

Trudy writes like she ranches—with equal parts chaos, courage, and caffeine. Her stories are messy, heartfelt, and proudly ridiculous, full of strong women, bad decisions, and dogs that steal entire scenes. If there’s a moral in her books, it’s usually hiding behind a joke, a shot of whiskey, or Grandma Mavis threatening to solve the afterlife with a frying pan.

At day’s end, Trudy is exactly who she’s always been: a rancher, musician, artist, animal rescuer, and chaos coordinator with a sense of humor sharp enough to brand cattle. The only real difference now is that she’s also the proud creator of Whiskey Gulch—a town where ghosts drink, dogs judge, secrets have excellent timing, and laughter is the only thing strong enough to raise the dead.