Embedded Files
Literary Western Fiction
Date Published: 06-13-2026
Publisher: Steinmetz Press
Seventeen-year-old Ellar Day is drowning in societal judgment. Following a shotgun wedding and an equally swift divorce from an unfaithful husband, she is under intense pressure from her demanding father to find a respectable provider and secure her infant son’s future. Instead, she falls for Joe Dixon, a former Buffalo Soldier. Because of the era's deep racial prejudices, their passionate affair is strictly forbidden, forcing them to steal quiet moments in back alleys and mule barns.
Meanwhile, her father champions Mark Atkins, a local editor who offers Ellar financial security and a white-picket homestead. But beneath Mark’s polished facade lies a dark, volatile past. When a stormy night with Joe leaves Ellar facing a potential pregnancy, the stakes turn deadly. Knowing a mixed-race child means social ruin for her and a hangman’s noose for Joe, she sacrifices her happiness and accepts Mark’s marriage proposal to save the man she loves.
Yet, safety is an illusion. Facing financial ruin and discovering Ellar's betrayal, Mark unleashes a brutal act of vengeance. When Ellar is fatally shot down a long hotel corridor, Joe is immediately accused of the crime. Orchestrating a ruthless brand of Wild West justice, Joe is burned alive in his jail cell by a lawless vigilante mob.
Reviews for The Notorious Murder of Ellar Day
"The Notorious Murder of Ellar Day is an untold story that is as compelling as it is timely and impactful. ~Penny Haw, author of The Invincible Miss Cust and The Woman and Her Stars.
"There is no easy or clear path for Ellar. Doing the right thing feels wrong and doing what feels right is forbidden." ~Kimberly Burns, author of The Mrs. Tabor and The Redemption of Mattie Silks
"The political and social backdrop of a bustling Colorado mining town gives authentic historical flavor to this captivating debut novel." ~Sherry Skye Stuart, author of Forgotten Female Felons Book One.
"Five stars for Marcy S. Wood's stunning debut! This beautiful reimagining of history portrays the delicate intersection of romantic tragedy and racial injustice with the reverence it deserves." ~Jennifer Wyrick, former owner of the Beaumont Hotel.
Excerpt
The strange thing about dying is I know the whole truth, like a clairvoyant with her crystal ball. They’ve tried that at the Beaumont, to summon me in a séance. I never appear. Instead, I’m the cold breeze on your shoulder down an empty corridor.
The truth is the more violent your death, the more likely a bit of your soul remains on Earth. On September 12th, 1887, inside the flagship hotel in Ouray, Colorado, I was shot four times with a .38 Smith & Wesson. A sliver of my spirit still haunts the mahogany hallways…Joe’s, too.
285 word excerpt
I sped down the stairs and out the door. The hag’s vicious laugh haunted my ears. Across the street stood Joe, speaking with the men with whom he played cards. They joked and smoked cigarettes. Surely they knew and were laughing at me. They fell silent as I dashed past. I tossed my mask.
“Missus Woodcock?” he said.
I ran on, too confused to orient myself.
“Excuse me,” I heard him say. To me? To his friends? I continued, hell-bent on escaping my dreadful embarrassment. I saw Mr. Begole’s store was closed up tight with the kerosene streetlights reflected in its windows, and the black night everywhere else. Kicking mud behind me, I rushed toward the company housing.
When I got to my tent, I hurled Chas’s clothes from the top drawer. I stomped them into the muck and mire of my life. It dawned on me that my wicked husband spent my money on whores and sodomites. I spat rancid bile from my mouth, and it landed just shy of Joseph W. Dixon’s feet.
“You all right?” He held my mask, now tarnished with mud.
I stared at him, wishing to scream. Instead, I kept my voice low and even. I gnashed my teeth.
“What does the W stand for?” I asked.
“What?”
“The W stands for What?”
“What are you asking me?”
“Your middle name?” He looked confused. “The W in your middle name. You’re Joseph W. Dixon, right? Oh, never mind. Were you aware of my husband—of his, all of this—when you met me today?” I was angry and addled, but my run through the chilly night had cleared my senses.
“I don’t find it my place to judge a man’s proclivities.”
507 word count
Joe lifted the cover plate off the stove and checked the fire. My hands were pink from the hot water on the stove. I twisted a rag.
“I’ve got something to tell you.” My voice faltered. “This will have to be enough. Us working side by side.” I sighed. I moved the back of my hand against his. He wrapped a single finger around mine. We heard Gretchen on the other side of the wall close her wardrobe. Tears came to my eyes. I wanted all of him, and pined for another touch, a devoted kiss, a way for us to be together.
A sallow sensation rose in my throat, clogged by my regret. Joe deserved to know. I took a deep breath. “Mark Atkins proposed. Well, not so much proposed to me, but asked Pa, and he agreed.” The words tumbled out of my mouth like crushing rocks. “He wants to take it slow, build a home, but—” I hated I had no fight left in me. “It’s for Raymond. I—” Tears flooded my eyes. I wiped them away.
The cover plate crashed to the floor. My heart broke.
“And you agreed?” his voice rasped, his Adam’s apple strained.
“Pa believes him to be a good man. He was working next to you and Pa to pull men out. Gave the last rites. This impressed him, and he has a say in my life, and Raymond’s,” I pleaded for him to understand. “I made a promise to God if He—”
“What?”
“If He brought back Silas—I love you, Joe, it’s all my heart understands, but I have Raymond to think of and—” I did not wish to disappoint my family, especially after the shame of my unwed pregnancy and the indignity of my divorce. To tell them I loved a Black man scared me to no end. “I want what is best for my son.” I let out a labored breath.
Joe cracked his knuckles, then yanked the dirty water off the stove. He kicked the back door open and tossed it out.
I dimmed the kitchen lantern. Only the thin moon hid us. The air was crisp against my overheated senses.
I walked over to help in a helpless situation. Joe swayed as he pumped fresh water into the pot. I hovered my hands over his back, daring to touch him. He turned.
“Ellar.” Tender light highlighted his features. “I’m in no position to make such an offer, and I hate that, but you and me, we got something special. Were it I could strip my skin and show your father that my bones are as white as his, I would. If I could get down on one knee and sweep you into my arms, I would. My muscles, my veins, my soul hold you in a golden box deep in here.” He placed my hand on his heart.
They trembled, and my body sobbed.
“I’m sorry.” I sniffed.
“I dislike myself more and am angry. An anger that singes my soul and then some.”
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Marcy S. Wood, MA in Creative Professional Writing, lives in the mountains of Ouray, CO. She writes at the end of her family’s dining table with a pup at her feet and a cat on her lap.
Contact Links
Website: https://www.marcywood.com/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/69989744.Marcy_S_Wood
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/marcyswood_author/
Purchase Link
Amazon: https://a.co/d/06wq6fvk
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