Good Morning to you!
I hope my post finds you well and ready for summer. I have grand news! I've written my first Western novel to be released this summer from Wolfpack Publishing.
I have loved reading Westerns since I was a kid and to think I finally got to pen one does my heart a lot of good! Here's what it's about:
The MacGregor’s Lament
A Legends of the High-Lonesome Novel
January Bain
The star on his chest was supposed to keep the peace. The blood in his veins demanded a reckoning.
In 1858, a ruthless cattle baron burned out Holt MacGregor’s family, leaving him with nothing but a shattered childhood and a wooden sidehill horse carved by his father’s own hands. Decades later, Holt wears the silver star of a deputy marshal in the Wyoming Territory—a “Scholar-Warrior” trying to let the law handle his ghosts.
But the past refuses to stay buried.
When Holt and his fiercely loyal clansman, Callum, trace a web of corruption straight to the capital city of Cheyenne, they find themselves face-to-face with the man who ordered the slaughter: the wealthy, untouchable Baron Sutherland. To bring him down, they must survive a war zone of hired regulators, crooked judges, and a city on the brink of collapse.
Then comes Adaira. Beautiful, fierce, and the Baron’s own daughter, she represents a future Holt never dared dream of—a quiet life far from the chaos of the gun. But in a territory ruled by greed and iron, peace comes at a devastating price.
When the ultimate betrayal shatters his world, the lawman must die so the warrior can live. From the smoke of a printing press to a legendary walk down Carey Avenue, Holt MacGregor will unleash a primal fury that will change the frontier forever.
Some men ride for justice. Some ride for peace. Holt MacGregor rides because he has nothing left to lose.
A gritty, heart-wrenching frontier epic, The MacGregor’s Lament is the unforgettable origin story of a man destined to become the West’s ultimate errant knight.
The MacGregor’s Lament
From Highlands to Wyoming plains,
MacGregor’s fought for land and name,
Centuries reckoning to end the flame,
And wash away the Sutherland stains.
A cellar deep and a wooden horse,
A boy who watched a brutal course,
The silver spurs and the dragon’s breath,
A child who learned the scent of death.
He wore the badge but kept the hunger,
While the years grew short and the shadows longer,
Until the wind brought back the ash,
And the level-head met the lightning flash.
A sixty-mile ride on a lathered bay,
To the smoking ruins where the MacGregors lay,
He found the girl with the enemy’s face,
And a love that bloomed in a hollow place.
The Colt was cocked, the hammer back,
The Baron knelt in the chimney black,
But the Higher Law was the choice to save,
And the debt of blood was finally paid.
From Highlands to Wyoming plains,
MacGregor’s fought for land and name,
Centuries reckoning to end the flame,
Till only the dust and debt remains.
Prologue
Missouri, 1858
“Get into the cellar, son! Stay quiet no matter what happens or what you hear.”
His pa’s voice was a jagged rasp as he yanked up the trapdoor and lowered him by his outstretched arms into the darkness. Holt’s small fingers were cramped tight around the little cedar horse his pa had finished whittling just that morning. It was a sidehill horse, built with the uphill legs shorter than the downs, meant for navigating the legendary steep braes of the old country. It was a tale the boy never tired of, fascinated by the very thought of such mythical beasts running wild across the misty glens.
Holt was dropped, his boots hitting the packed earth, but he never let go of the carving. He crawled toward the rough stone wall, the ground cold and gritty under his palms, the little wooden beast now tucked safely into his pocket against his thigh. Fear lodged in his throat, making him gasp for every ragged breath.
Above him, the floorboards groaned. He could hear his parents arguing, their shadows flickering through the narrow cracks in the wood. His mama refused to leave, her voice sharp with a desperation Holt didn’t fully understand, insisting she could handle a long gun as well as the next man.
The trapdoor slammed shut, cutting her off. The heavy wood sent a cascade of dust and grit raining down on Holt's head. He ignored it, straining to see in the dimness, the darkness pressing in from every corner like a physical weight. The musty, damp smell of the earth stung his nostrils. He waited, curled small, alone in the dark.
The sudden crack of gunshots made him bolt upright. He covered his ears, a sob breaking from his chest as tears began to track through the dust on his cheeks. Then came the silence—a dead, heavy quiet that was worse than the shooting.
Would pa let him out now? He stared at the ceiling, waiting for the sliver of light that would mean the trapdoor was opening. He prayed for it. Please, let me out.
A different noise started then. A low, hollow whoosh that sounded hungry to his ears. The smell of smoke reached him first. Sharp. Dry. Wrong.
Fire.
Stunned, he couldn’t move. He could only watch the cabin floor above. Through a jagged knothole, he saw the flash of silver spurs—heavy, star-shaped rowels that clinked like a funeral bell against the floorboards. Then the smoke drifted in, thickening into a gray blanket that pressed him down toward the dirt. He covered his mouth with small, trembling hands, remembering his father’s command to stay silent.
Suddenly, the world above gave way. A floorboard, wreathed in orange flames, came crashing into the cellar. The jagged, glowing wood caught him across the shoulder, and he screamed as the heat seared through his shirt. He had to hide—or he’d be burned alive.
He looked around frantically, spotting the crawlspace his pa had dug out under the porch—a narrow, cooler hollow in the earth. He scrambled toward the tunnel-like opening, pushing through the suffocating heat. At eight years old, he was slender, taking after his ma’s side of the family. His pa was always telling him he needed to “muscle up”, but today, his small frame was his only hope.
He managed to wedge himself into the opening, pulling his legs in and curling into a tight, shivering ball. His hand went to his pocket, his knuckles white as he gripped the little horse. He squeezed it so hard the stunted wooden legs bit into his palm, a small, grounding pain against the roar of the fire. His shoulder burned where the floorboard had branded him, and tears flowed unchecked. It felt like an eternity before the angry roar of the fire died out into a low, hissing ember.
And in the black silence of that hole, the boy he was died, and the man he would become began to hunger.
Chapter One
Green River, Wyoming, 1885.
Deputy Sheriff Holt MacGregor stared east into the pitch-black expanse of the high desert. Sometimes, even twenty-seven years on, the wind still brought back the fire. It shifted through the high Wyoming grass with the same dry, rhythmic hiss, smelling of alkali dust and old ash. He rolled his left shoulder—the one branded by Missouri oak—feeling the phantom heat pull uncomfortably at the twisted skin.
In the quiet between the gusts, the faint, ghostly skirl of the bagpipes started up, humming a low, jagged lament in the back of his mind. A funeral song for a family long in the clay.
I hope you have a grand day and a lovely summer!
Hugs,
January Bain/storyteller
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