"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.
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.”
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