Country music icon Reba McEntire has never strayed far from the red dirt that raised her, and in a new wide-ranging interview, the 70-year-old superstar peeled back the layers on how her southeastern Oklahoma cattle ranch upbringing remains the unbreakable backbone of her five-decade career. “I grew up on a working cattle ranch,” McEntire told reporters during a sit-down at her Nashville estate last week. “And it was always very romantic to me: The West, the cowboy, the Western way of life. That’s where my heart still lives.”

The admission comes as McEntire gears up for the November release of her 30th studio album, Stronger Than the Truth, a project she describes as her most personal since 1990’s Rumor Has It. Recorded in a makeshift studio on her 1,000-acre Starstruck Farms property outside Nashville—complete with hay bales for sound dampening and her prized quarter horses visible through the windows—the record channels the dust-kicking authenticity of her Chockie, Oklahoma, childhood. Tracks like the lead single “Freedom” and the steel-drenched ballad “The Bar’s Got My Name on It” echo the wide-open plains and unbreakable family bonds that shaped the girl who would become the Queen of Country.

McEntire’s origins are no secret to fans, but her latest reflections offer fresh insight into how the ranch life wasn’t just a backdrop—it was the blueprint. Born in 1955 to champion steer roper Clark McEntire and schoolteacher Jacqueline, Reba was the third of four siblings on the 8,000-acre McEntire Ranch near the tiny town of Kiowa. Days started before dawn: feeding cattle, mending fences, branding calves under the relentless Oklahoma sun. “We didn’t have babysitters or video games,” she recalled with a laugh. “We had chores, and if you didn’t pull your weight, you didn’t eat. Simple as that.”

Her father, a three-time world champion in the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, instilled a code that McEntire still lives by. “Daddy taught us respect—for the land, for the animals, for each other,” she said. “You shake hands firm, you look people in the eye, and you finish what you start. That cowboy ethic? It’s in every contract I sign, every handshake on Music Row.” Clark’s rodeo travels meant the kids often tagged along, with Reba and sisters Alice and Susie forming the Singing McEntires by age 10, performing at rodeos and dance halls across the Southwest. Brother Pake later joined the act before pursuing his own music career.

The romance McEntire romanticizes wasn’t the Hollywood version—no sweeping John Wayne vistas without the sweat. “People think ‘cowboy’ and picture sunsets and campfires,” she noted. “Reality was busted knuckles, 100-degree heat, and praying the well didn’t run dry. But that’s what made it beautiful. You earned every sunrise.” Her mother Jacqueline, a former aspiring singer who shelved dreams to raise the family, nurtured the musical spark. “Mama would sing hymns while cooking supper, and we’d harmonize around the table,” McEntire remembered. “She saw something in us kids and pushed us toward the stage when the ranch work was done.”

That push paid off in 1974 when a 19-year-old McEntire, fresh from riding broncs at the National Finals Rodeo in Oklahoma City, caught the ear of country star Red Steagall. Performing the national anthem at the event, her crystal-clear soprano stopped Steagall mid-conversation. He whisked her to Nashville, landing a deal with Mercury Records. Her debut single “I Don’t Want to Be a One Night Stand” cracked the Top 100 in 1976, but it was 1980’s “You Lift Me Up to Heaven” that signaled her arrival. By 1984, with MCA Nashville, hits like “How Blue” and “Somebody Should Leave” cemented her as a powerhouse.

Yet McEntire never let stardom erase her roots. Even at the peak of her 1990s dominance—selling out arenas, starring in films like Tremors, launching a Broadway run in Annie Get Your Gun—she maintained the ranch rhythm. “I’d fly private from a sold-out Madison Square Garden show straight to Oklahoma to help with calving season,” she said. “Nothing grounds you like pulling a calf at 3 a.m. with mud up to your elbows.” Her 1991 plane crash tragedy, which claimed eight band members and her manager, only deepened that tether. “Losing them made me cling harder to family and the land,” she shared. “The ranch became my sanctuary.”

Today, McEntire’s empire reflects that heritage. Her Reba clothing line at Dillard’s features fringe jackets and turquoise accents straight from rodeo royalty. Her Choctaw Casino & Resort in Durant, Oklahoma, hosts the annual Reba’s Place restaurant and music venue, serving chicken-fried steak alongside live honky-tonk. Even her role as a coach on The Voice—a gig she’s held since 2023—draws from ranch-honed mentorship. “I treat those kids like green broke horses,” she quipped. “Gentle but firm—teach ’em to trust their instincts but stay in the saddle when it bucks.”

The Western influence permeates her art. Albums like 1986’s Whoever’s in New England and 1998’s If You See Him weave tales of resilient women facing frontier-sized heartaches, mirroring the grit of ranch wives. Her 2019 Grammy-nominated gospel project Sing It Now: Songs of Faith & Hope nods to Sunday services in the McEntire living room. “Steel guitar is just a fancy way of crying like a coyote at midnight,” she joked. “It’s all connected—the land, the loss, the love.”

Fans see it too. At a recent Cheyenne Frontier Days performance in Wyoming, 25,000 strong waved cowboy hats as McEntire closed with “Fancy,” her rags-to-riches anthem. Social media exploded with clips: “Reba don’t just sing the West—she IS the West,” one X user posted, garnering 100,000 likes. Another shared a throwback photo of a teenage McEntire barrel racing: “From arena dust to arena tours—same fire.”

McEntire’s authenticity resonates in an industry often criticized for gloss. Unlike pop-country peers chasing trends, she doubles down on tradition. Her 2024 induction into the Cowboy Hall of Fame alongside legends like Lane Frost underscored that bridge. “They gave me a bronze statue next to Daddy’s old saddle,” she beamed. “Felt like coming home.”

As Stronger Than the Truth approaches, early reviews praise its rawness. Rolling Stone called it “Reba reclaiming the red dirt crown,” highlighting tracks co-written with Oklahoma natives like Blake Shelton and Ronnie Dunn. One standout, “The West Wasn’t Won on a Stage,” directly references her father’s rodeo mantra: “You rope the dream, you ride the storm, you don’t quit till the job’s done.”

For McEntire, the ranch life isn’t nostalgia—it’s oxygen. “City folks ask if I miss the glamour,” she said, gesturing to her Nashville spread where longhorns graze beside the tour bus. “Glamour fades. But the smell of fresh-cut hay after a rain? The sound of hooves on gravel? That never leaves you.” She paused, eyes distant. “The Western lifestyle taught me everything—respect, hard work, and how to keep your chin up even when the trail gets rough. It’s why I can stand on any stage and mean every word.”

To her 2.5 million Instagram followers and the generations who’ve grown up on her voice, McEntire represents more than hits. She’s a living archive of a vanishing America—where family brands deeper than cattle, where songs carry the weight of weathered hands. “The American West isn’t just history,” she concluded. “It’s heritage. And as long as I’m breathing, it’ll keep singing.”

With a new album, a Las Vegas residency extension, and whispers of a Fried Green Tomatoes reboot, McEntire shows no signs of slowing. But come branding season, she’ll trade sequins for spurs. “The cows don’t care if you sold 40 million records,” she laughed. “They just want their feed on time.” And in that simple truth lies the heart of a legend—rooted, real, and forever riding.