I've been busy writing as always and I'm so looking forward to some warmer weather. I can't believe how deep the snow was this winter! I hope the winter treated you well.
I made this video of a Western book I'm working on in my spare time, one of my hobbies. Hobbies are what help us Northerners get through the long winters!
Belle MacGregor and The Long Riders
"A feminist Western reimagining of the first daylight bank robbery in U.S. history, where a ‘Lady Robin Hood’ escapes a shotgun wedding to lead a trio of female bounty hunters to the Texas frontier."
January Bain
Liberty, Missouri
February 13, 1866
1:57 p.m.
My corset was too tight, the Missouri sun was too hot, and the bank vault behind me was proving too stubborn. I kept my eyes on the town clock, the gold hands mocking me. Every tick was a reminder of the farm the Blue-coats burned in '64—a debt I intended to collect today, cent by bloody cent.
Three minutes.
That was all Huck needed to get the job done, and all Connor needed to lose his temper. I adjusted the reins of the four horses, my palms slick against the leather, praying for the boys to get a move on. My three brothers couldn’t have been more different. Huck, the oldest, always quiet and thoughtful, Connor a match in temperament for his bright red hair, his twin Abel in his shadow.
I glanced over at the two-story building with its tall, narrow windows, wishing I could see through the red brick of its exterior to where I envisioned my brothers confronting the teller. In my mind’s eye, I saw Huck’s steady hand and Connor’s mounting impatience; a clock ticking in the silence of the vault.
“A beautiful day for a stroll, isn't it, Miss?”
I turned, determined to hide my chagrin behind a polite, paper-thin smile. Men were always sticking their noses in where they didn’t belong, and today was a poor day to test the length of my temper.
The man—a gambler by the look of his silk pinstripe vest—was leaning against the hitching post with a lazy, predatory grace. He was handsome in a dangerous way, the kind of man who noticed the small, jagged truths people tried to hide.
I gripped the reins tighter, the leather biting into my palms, my thumb brushing the cold steel trigger of the derringer tucked into my lace glove. I kept my head bowed, letting the deep sides of my sunbonnet shadow my face. It was my shield, a wall of stiffened calico that kept the world—and his prying eyes—at a distance. I’d even added a bovolet to the back, ensuring not a single lock of my bright golden hair could betray me. In a town this small, an uncommon color was as good as a signature on a death warrant.
“I’d rather be riding than walking, thank you very much,” I replied. It was perfunctory, my voice a cool drawl even as my heart hammered a rhythm of war. He needed to move on down the boardwalk. Now.
I glanced up at the sky, my stomach churning for more than just the job. The sun had disappeared in the last few minutes, replaced by storm clouds rushing in from the south—a heavy, fast moving mass with that eerie, sickly green haze that didn't bode well for anyone left on the street. The air had gone deathly still as well, the kind of heavy quiet that precedes a wind-spout.
“A lady such as you shouldn’t be left alone in this weather,” he pressed, his gaze lingering a second too long. “Miss…?”
“I’m not alone, and my kin would not appreciate a stranger speaking with me.” I itched to reach down and brush the outline of the Colt strapped to my leg—a weapon I had spent weeks practicing with until it felt like an extension of my arm—but his steady eyes kept me frozen in place.
Why couldn’t he take a hint? If he didn't move soon, he was going to be standing right in the middle of a gunfight. If not caught in the thick of the approaching thunderstorm.
The gambler’s lip quirked into a half-smile, a look that suggested he found my defiance more intriguing than insulting. "Well then, I'd hate to be the cause of any family friction," he said, yet he didn't move an inch. He just adjusted his hat, his eyes flicking toward the bank's heavy oak doors.
My pulse skipped. He suspects. What woman would stay on the street and not take cover when a storm threatens?
Just as I prepared to draw the derringer and end the charade, the air was punched out of the afternoon by the heavy thud of a safe door being blown. The horses shied, pulling at my arms, and the gambler’s hand flew to his own hip—not for a wallet, but for a holster, I hadn't seen.
Inside the bank, I heard Connor’s muffled roar: “The buzz-tails are open for business, boys!”
I didn't need to see it to know what was happening. I could read it in all too well—Connor leaning forward, shaking out the contents of a gunny sack onto the floor. I shook my head with disgust, the sound of the death rattles reaching me even over the wind. I’d have to find a way to talk him out of his cruel theater next time. If there was a next time.
The bank doors didn't just open; they were kicked wide. I gripped the reins of the horses, my stomach turning at the thought of the panic inside, but as the townspeople were forced to become too busy looking at the floor to look at us, I knew we had our head start.
Connor exploded onto the boardwalk, a heavy canvas bag in one hand and his revolver in the other, his face hidden behind a rough wool scarf. Huck was right behind him, looking like a bear emerging from a cave, blinking against the Missouri glare. Abel was the last one out, his sack loaded down and his Colt at the ready. He’d even taken the time to collect the empty gunny sack—the one devoid of wildlife—to leave no trace behind.
“Time to go!” Connor roared.
The gambler froze, his gaze darting from the masked men to me—the lady he'd been flirting with, who was now expertly hauling four panicked horses into a line with the strength of a teamster.
I didn't give him a second look. I kicked my skirts aside, exposing the Colt on my thigh, and swung into the saddle of my chestnut mare, Jubilee. “Mount up!” I screamed over the sudden chorus of shouts from across the street. “Ride like the wind, boys!”
The storm had picked up, howling between the buildings like a banshee, tearing the gambler’s hat from his head. But he didn't give chase. He stood there in the swirling grit and the sudden, cold rain, watching me. Through the smoke of the bank and the rising dust of the storm, he caught my eye. He didn't reach for a gun. Instead, he raised a hand to his brow in a mock-salute, a flash of white teeth against his tanned face as the sky behind him turned a terrifying shade of charcoal.
“Go!” I screamed to Connor, digging my heels into the mare. “We’re in for it now!”
A wild wind chose that exact moment to howl down the street, a wall of grit and rain slamming into us. My bonnet, that stiffened calico shield, stood no chance. The ribbons snapped under the strain, and the wind tore the hat clean from my head, sending it tumbling into the Missouri mud.
My bright golden hair, once pinned and hidden, spilled down my shoulders like a banner of defiance. I didn't reach for it. I didn't care. I leaned low over Jubilee’s neck, the rain stinging my eyes as we thundered away.
Just as the street began to dissolve into chaos behind us—shouts of “Robbery!” competing with the first low growl of thunder—I stole one last glance over my shoulder. Through the rising dust and the swirling grit of the wind-spout’s herald, the gambler stood his ground. He wasn't going for the law but held my gaze.
Good luck, little rebel, his eyes seemed to say.
Then the sky broke.
A wall of rain slammed into Liberty, turning the street to a river of gumbo mud in seconds. “Hell’s bells!” I screamed, leaning low over Jubilee’s neck. Behind me, Connor, Huck and Abel were black silhouettes against a sky that had turned the color of an old bruise.
We hit the edge of town just as the sound changed. It wasn't thunder anymore. It was a rhythmic, soul-shaking roar—the sound of a freight train where no tracks existed. A wind-spout was dropping to the south, a twisting finger of debris and black cloud that made the very earth tremble.
“She’s coming for us!” Huck yelled, his voice barely audible over the gale.
“No,” I gritted my teeth, the rain lashing my face. “Ride! We can make it.” At least I hoped we could. I rode like my life depended on it, as I darn well knew it did. Jubilee agreed, forcing her brave heart to greater effort as her hooves sunk deep into the Missouri mud, clods of earth flying with every push of her haunches.
It was taking too long, the race for the Blue-Cut and the safety it promised. We had yet to cross the Missouri River. Would the ferry still be running in the storm? I worried this day could mark the end of my deepest desire to redistribute funds more fairly among my suffering neighbors if we didn’t avoid capture.
The Sibley landing was a soup of grey mud and splintered wood. Through the sheets of rain, the Missouri River looked like a churning muscle of brown water, angry and indifferent to our plight.
"Is he out there?" Connor yelled, shielding his eyes as he looked toward the ferryman’s shack.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My eyes were fixed on the far bank, barely visible through the mist. If we stayed here, the law would pin us against the water like rats in a shed. If we crossed, we were at the mercy of the current.
I thought of the widow Mrs. Miller and her three hungry boys. I thought of the “Ironclad Oath” that had stripped the dignity away from every man in our county. My desire to see that gold on their doorsteps felt heavier than the bags on Connor's saddle.
“The ferry's still docked!” I spurred Jubilee forward, the mare's hooves sliding on the slick riverbank. “Connor, Abel—get to the winch! We’re taking her across ourselves if we have to. We didn't come this far to drown in a Yankee river.”
The ferry was a flat, wooden skeleton tethered to a thick hemp cable that disappeared into the churning brown mist of the river. The water was high and lonesome, as the old-timers said—crested with white foam and carrying entire trees like toothpicks.
“The ferryman’s gone to ground!” Huck roared over the gale, pointing to the empty shack.
“Then we’re the crew!” I didn't give them time to think. I led Jubilee onto the slick wooden deck, her hooves sounding like thunder on the boards. The ferry groaned under the weight of four horses and four desperate outlaws.
I grabbed the steering sweep—a massive oar at the back—while Connor and Abel fought with the snubbing lines. The river hit us with the force of a stampede. The boat bucked, and for a terrifying second, the bow dipped beneath a swell, washing the deck in freezing, silt-heavy water.
“She’s gonna snap!” Huck screamed, eyes fixed on the straining cable. The hemp was frayed, weeping water under the tension.
Not today, I decided, throwing my weight against the sweep. Not with the gold that’s meant to save others in dire need.
We were halfway across—the middle of the “Big Muddy”—when the twister’s tail hit the water. The air turned into a wall of spray, blinding me. I gripped the wood until my knuckles turned white, steering us by instinct through the roar.
With a sickening crack, the boat lurched. We didn't snap, but we drifted, the current trying to turn us broadside.
“Push!” I hollered to my brothers. “Angle her! Give her to the river!”
We hit the southern bank with a bone-jarring thud that nearly sent the horses overboard. We didn't wait for the ramp. We leapt into the waist-deep mud, dragging the animals toward the treeline. We were soaked, freezing, and haunted—but we were across. The Missouri was behind us, and the Blue-Cut was waiting in the dark.
Finally, the limestone walls of the Cut rose up around us like a natural cathedral of stone, slick with rain and shimmering that strange, ghostly blue in the fading light. We’d made it. The twister was a distant growl now, tearing up the valley behind us, and I prayed, hoping the storm would take any posse’s trail with it.
I slid off Jubilee, my legs shaking so hard I nearly folded into the mud.
“Light a lantern, Abel,” I commanded, my voice sounding small against the dripping silence. “Low and hooded.”
The match struck, illuminating three faces smeared with Missouri mud and gunpowder. Huck sat back against a ledge, his quiet eyes already scanning the entrance for movement. Connor was already clawing at the ties of the canvas bags, his red hair plastered to his forehead like a bloody crown.
“Look at it, Belle,” Connor whispered, his temper finally cooling into greed. He dumped a stream of gold double-eagles onto a dry patch of stone. "We could buy back the whole county and still have enough for a palace in St. Louis."
Abel sat beside him, silent as always, his eyes reflecting the gold light but his hands busy checking the action of his Colt.
I stood apart from them. “Blast you, Connor!” I hissed. My legs felt like jelly, but my anger was solid. “Snakes? You could have killed a child. You could have killed that teller. We’re supposed to be better than the Blue-coats who burned us out, not worse.”
Connor hopped down from his gelding, tossing a heavy, clinking bag of gold onto the mud. He wiped rain from his brow and gave me that jagged, defiant grin though I could see pinpoints of color high on his cheekbones. “They didn't follow us, did they? While they were dancing the Missouri Jig to keep their toes, we were three miles out of town. I don’t care about being better, Belle. I care about being alive and rich.”
“It’s cruel,” I snapped, my chest heaving against the stays of my corset. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a cold, hollow ache in its place. I needed a moment of peace—the one thing that always grounded me when the world went to hell.
I reached for my throat. My fingers searched for the familiar, thin gold chain and the heavy weight of the locket. I wanted to see Mother’s face and tell her we’d done it—that the neighbors wouldn't starve this winter.
My hand met only cold, damp skin.
My breath hitched. I searched frantically, my fingers clawing at the lace of my collar, then moving down to my bodice. Nothing. Just the salt of rain and the grit of the road.
“Belle?” Abel asked, his voice softening as he saw my face go pale.
“It’s gone,” I whispered, my eyes darting back toward the mouth of the Cut, toward the miles of mud and the town of Liberty. “The locket. It’s gone.”
“Forget the locket,” Connor grunted, though his eyes shifted away. “We got the gold. We can buy you ten lockets.”
I looked at him, and for the first time, the anger felt like ice instead of fire. “You don’t understand, Connor. You never do. That wasn't just gold. It was the only thing the fire didn't take. The last piece of our mother. The Devil’s own luck that it’s gone.”
I quickly crossed myself, the damp wool of my glove rough against my forehead, not wanting to invoke the dark one any further in this cold, unholy place. The silence of the Cut seemed to press in on me. Had I traded my mortal soul for this Yankee gold? Was this the cost of our call to justice—that we get to keep the neighbor’s farms but lose the very things that make us who we are?
Connor just snorted, his red hair damp and wild as he went back to counting. To him, a pure white soul was a luxury we hadn't been able to afford since the war. But as I looked at my muddy reflection in a puddle on the cave floor, I didn't see a lady, and I didn't see a MacGregor. I saw a ghost in a wet corset, haunted by a locket I’d dropped as a one-way ticket to becoming an outlaw. If a photograph truly captured a piece of the soul, as so many believed, then I had just traded my mother's spirit for a bag of Yankee gold. I had made a pact with the Devil himself. God help me, but I wasn’t feeling contrite at that moment, but full of more anger at my lot in life than my small body could hold.
Hugs, January
Storyteller
