THE BORROWED HILLS

A Wild West–type tale of rustling and villainy, blood and belonging, transposed to the bleakly beautiful fells and sheep flocks of northern England.

Preston’s debut arrives like a punch to the gut, darkly phrased and launching quickly into the ghastly consequences of foot-and-mouth disease spreading through the farms of Cumbria. Sheep are slaughtered and burned by the thousands, and small farmers ruined, including the elderly father of loner Steve Elliman—“I like dogs more than people”—the tough but upright narrator of the story. One farmer, William Herne, tries to buck the rules, and Steve lends a hand, until Herne is forced to submit. Steve then returns to his other job—“Only two things I knew was driving and sheep”—until his father’s death brings him back to the fells, and to Herne and his compelling wife, Helen, whom Steve has known since childhood. Herne pulls Steve into another risky enterprise, this time driving one of the trucks in a big sheep robbery spearheaded by slippery Colin Tinley. The job goes well enough, but Tinley sticks around afterward, bringing mayhem and lawlessness with him. Steve’s been well paid but doesn’t want to get involved with the next job, which goes wrong anyway. This phase of the story is a blur of fighting, police involvement, guns, and savage dogs, all leading to a showdown high in the hills. But even with an end to the crimes, the destiny-defining drama among Steve, William, and Helen is not done. Preston delivers his narrative in clipped yet rhythmic prose: “I eyed up the three lads, stood nervy they were, and all a step too close,” although the vernacular might require a glossary for those unfamiliar with “nowt,” “bowk,” and much more. This is an elemental tale shaded in tones of heroism, machismo, moral intensity, and mythmaking. It’s also a love song to the landscape: “These rocks make me want to bloody cry.”

Gritty, gripping, and fearlessly committed. A notable beginning.