TIP OF THE HAT TO OUR WESTERN HEROES

TIP OF THE HAT TO OUR WESTERN HEROES – Elizabeth Clements

Recently, a good friend asked me to recommend some good western movies. I gave her the names of a few that my husband and I enjoy. Then over the past couple of days I’ve been in the mood to watch some of those favorite westerns again. There’s a plethora to choose from on tv, but in the end I went back to favorites from our DVD library.

Since there are thousands of westerns made stemming back to the silent movies, I’m going to touch on the ones that have had a lasting impression on me. There are lots of westerns that are shoot-‘em-up action. Gunfights and posse pursuits are expected, just like car chase scenes are mandatory in the action adventure movies. What I’d like to focus on here are the ones that speak to the heart and give a glimpse of what makes our western hero and heroine tick. We writers are guilty, to a certain extent, of romanticizing westerns and that’s understandable because life in the west was hard, sweaty and dirty, with few amenities and mostly grinding work. To appeal to our fastidious 21^st century sensibilities, our hero and heroine must be reasonably clean and lean on the side of honor, with good overpowering evil. I admit I’m not good at making my villains utterly evil, nor can I put my hero through too much torture, because I am, after all, a romance writer, but I admire the writers who can accomplish both. Drama and conflict is what drives a good love story.

Of the hundreds of westerns I’ve watched over the years, Dances With Wolves is my all-time favorite western—and not just because of the fabulous scenery when Lieutenant John Dunbar rides over a ridge and sees the majesty of the western frontier spread out before him (South Dakota).

I’m so glad I watched this movie for the first time in the theatre where the huge screen gave justice to the magnificent scenery. The message in this movie hit me between the eyes. Finally, Hollywood got it right, thanks to an excellent novel written by Michael Blake and Kevin Costner’s vision in directing and acting in this amazing epic that won seven academy awards, including Best Picture and Best Director.

For once the Native Americans were portrayed in a true light: not as murdering savages but instead, a normal, peace-loving people who preferred a peaceful family life and killed only to eat or in self-defense. There was humor and laughter, wisdom and acceptance. Yes, there were rogues, too, as there are in all races, but it particularly pointed out the ignorance and injustice prevalent in the settling of the West. Oh how I despised the actions of those soldiers when they reached Dunbar’s deserted outpost. And did they really have to kill Two Socks for sport? One tiny little camera shot focused on an empty tin can of beans carelessly tossed onto the prairie by the itinerant peddler. The only other things littering the prairie were the sun-bleached heads of a cow or a buffalo.  (What legacy do we leave behind with our overflowing landfills?)

I later discovered there is more than one version of the movie, the full-length, and the editor’s cut (where this scene was cut, along with a few others).

Another Kevin Costner movie we’ve watched numerous times is Open Range. This movie has the usual greedy, bigoted  scoundrel with his group of thugs and a noisy shoot-out climatic ending, but what I like best about it is the characterization of two cowhands (Costner and Robert Duval) on a cattle drive and a glimpse into the heart of a trail-hardened cowboy. One scene shows how Costner’s character is aware he’d tramped mud onto the heroine’s carpet and tries to scoop most of it up and put it under the carpet. In another scene, he accidentally breaks her china tea service and leaves money with the store merchant to order a replacement set. There is also a touching scene involving a melted chocolate bar and how precious the taste is to a cowboy when he’s used to eating dried jerky and beans.

Lonesome Dove, written by Larry McMurtry, starring Robert Duval and Tommy Lee Jones, is a fantastic movie and mini-series. It gives a gritty view of life in a small dusty Texas town and life on a long, 900-mile cattle drive. The most succinct word to describe the landscape and the clothing is: beige. Everything is coated in dusty, boring beige. Even the clothes are beige. It also shows that special bond between a man and a woman down on her luck, as well as two old friends and promises kept (and was actually inspired by a true story of two Texans, Charles Goodnight and Oliver Loving who took several thousand cattle north on a 900-mile cattle drive from Texas to Montana).

Legends of the Fall is a riveting and heart-wrenching saga of a retired army colonel played by Anthony Hopkins and his three sons on a ranch in Montana at the turn of the century. Not exactly a western as in wild west, but unforgettable, set in Montana. All the actors are great, but for me, Brad Pitt steals the show in every scene he’s in (ditto A River Runs Through It). The brothers are torn apart by so many emotions with a woman at the center of the unfolding drama. An unforgettable story of love and hate, bigotry and revenge…plus amazing scenery.

John Wayne starred in some great westerns, which could easily be a blog all about him. Classic McLintock…we’ve watched it so many times we know key passages let alone know what happens next. This movie has everything, big rancher, big money, great chemistry between JW and Maureen O’Hara, and lots of humor. It also shows good relations between the rancher and Native Americans and how people want to be and need to be treated.

I enjoy Rio Bravo for so many reasons, but probably mainly because of the jailhouse scene where Dean Martin resides on a cot and warbles My Rifle, My Pony and Me, accompanied by Ricky Nelson strumming his guitar. And loveable Walter Brennan, with his famous toothless cackle, joining in with his harmonica. Not something one would expect in the middle of a western, but unforgettably entertainment, especially when juxtaposed between Martin’s alcohol addiction and hired thugs terrorizing the town.

Three days before I saw the movie in the theater, I quickly read the The Horse Whisperer, a debut novel by Nicholas Evans. My biggest anticipation was how would Hollywood create the scene where the horse rose up to fight off the semi. I wasn’t disappointed. In fact the entire movie followed the book until the last quarter of the movie. Then it reversed the story line, which annoyed and disappointed me because it’s such a great movie with amazing scenery filmed in Montana. Still, I have watched it several times and not just because Robert Redford plays an amazing part. “According to writer Nicholas Evans, Tom Booker is modelled after horse whisperers Tom Dorrance, Ray Hunt and, in particular, their younger disciple Buck Brannaman. Evans has said, "Others have claimed to be the inspiration for Tom Booker in The Horse Whisperer. The one who truly inspired me was Buck Brannaman. His skill, understanding and his gentle, loving heart have parted the clouds for countless troubled creatures. Buck is the Zen master of the horse world."

Once Upon an Epiphany

Once Upon An Epiphany  - Elizabeth Clements

Writers are often inspired by what’s around them, be it scenery, a person, an event, a song, or even a movie. That would definitely describe my writing inspirations, be it for fiction or poetry.

For some reason last night I wanted to watch something different from my usual fare of westerns or crime/action movies. I wanted to get lost in another world, and there’s none better (for me) than the magic of Kate and Leopold, a delightful, romantic time travel that bespoke of a slower, gentler time:1876 New York vs New York 2001.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6FeyhlLZYrg

Time travels are so much fun, especially when the past leaps into the future and the time traveler is gobsmacked (I just love that word) by all sorts of modern technology. Leopold is catapulted into an unfamiliar world of televisions, telephones, and microwave ovens. Going from the present to the past can just as easily create all kinds of perils when the traveler brings unfamiliar things  along, such as antibiotics whose miraculous healing powers can brand the person as a witch or warlock. In those suspicious medieval times, people often reasoned with fear rather than logic and miracles were due to hocus pocus and witchcraft. I would love to see some of Sandra Hill’s Viking time travels made into movies. Her books are a hoot to read. I have one anecdote that involves reading her book, Frankly, My Dear while snuggling up with my cat—but that’s a story for another time.

Kate and Leopold has a special place in my heart and his name is Hugh Jackman. Hugh…er, Leopold, darn, I mean Josh—is tall, dark and handsome, carries himself with elegance and grace, and has a delightful accent (you can take the man out of Australia but you can’t take Australia out of the man)…but I digress.

You see, back about sixteen or so years ago I was finishing writing  Beneath A Desperado Moon, the third book of my western trilogy set in 1899 western Canada. I loved my Josh, but I couldn’t really “see” him. He was just a handsome, elegant figment of my imagination—until I had an epiphany half-way through that  delightful time-travel movie called Kate and Leopold.  

At the time, my Josh was kinda like a paint-by-number outline waiting for the right colors to truly bring him to life. I knew Josh’s history, that he’s the second son of a long line of wealthy English dukes. He had no desire to become a cleric nor join a regiment, so in 1889 he opted to board a ship bound for Canada and became a “remittance man” like so many of the noblemen who had fled to the colonies. Yet Josh wasn’t content to sit idly and indulge in the indolent entertainment of most of the ex-pats while he waited for his monthly “remittance” from his family back in England. He loved his new-found freedom from pomp and ceremony and over the next ten years eagerly explored all that the Canadian and American West had to offer. His excellent horsemanship won him the notice of a retired U.S. marshal in Montana who invited him to be a guest on his ranch. Through that friendship he also became friends with two U.S. marshals: Chase Reynolds and Mike Sutton.

When I wrote Chase’s story, Beneath A Horse Thief Moon was a stand-alone until his friends arrived. Mike immediately charmed me with his humor, while Josh was a bit of an enigma—an elegant,  handsome, reserved man who didn’t say much but his green eyes missed nothing.

Mike secretly yearned to have a life like Chase, so he whispered in my ear to find him a love like that. Not to be outdone, Josh brushed my hair back and murmured the same request in my other ear. What was a poor girl to do when the English rogue entreated with such potent charm? No wonder Molly didn’t stand a chance.

Months later I happened upon the movie, Kate and Leopold and at some point I realized Leopold was the crayons to color my Josh—fastidious, perfect posture, perfect manners, elegance with knife and fork and ever the gentleman despite the circumstances that currently directed his life. At last I really “saw” Josh. Western life had softened the sharp edges of proper English society but he never strayed from the path of human decency and kindness. Isn’t it wonderful when a writer has such an epiphany!

That happened to me one other time in the mid-80s. I was writing my third contemporary romance in which my heroine, Samantha, was a singer and the hero was a pianist…until I had an amazing epiphany while watching The Johnny Carson Show. I wasn’t paying close attention when Johnny introduced a singer who was making his first appearance on national television. I think in those first few moments of hearing him sing, it brought home the realization that a song sung beautifully in a foreign language needs no interpreter to make one appreciate and understand what a God-given talent is saying. I had chills. I remember my hubby looking confused when I excitedly exclaimed, “That’s him. That’s my __ (whatever name I’d given to my hero at the time and who I ruthlessly kicked to the curb). I remember silently willing Mr. Carson to repeat the singer’s name, to no avail. And there was no repeat button let alone a tv remote control back in the 80s. That remote was two feet pushing one out of the chair to manually change the volume or channel.

Then, just like with Leopold, I “saw” my fictional hero as I watched that singer steal into my heart. Two weeks later, he unexpectedly reappeared on Johnny’s show. Luckily, we tuned in nightly to watch. Apparently, I wasn’t the only person blown away by the Spanish crooner. Johnny said the switchboard lit up after the show with hundreds of callers who wanted to know more about this amazing Spanish singer and to bring him back. It was a first, back in the day, for an “unknown” to be asked for a repeat engagement and in two weeks. And finally, I knew his name as I watched mesmerized… again. Have you guessed his name by now? Julio Iglesias.

Needless to say, my original hero was gone, so gone that to this day I don’t even remember his name. Julius had taken over. Well, the funny thing about choosing that name was that half the time when I was talking to someone about my book, I was saying Julio instead of Julius. The names were just too similar. So, tired of correcting myself, I changed Julius to Raphael, a name I’ve always loved. The other funny thing about this anecdote is that I created a history for Raphael. Pure imagination, but here’s the kicker. A few years later I found a small little soft-cover biography of Julio and was blown away by how closely my imagination had created a similar background for Raphael without me knowing a single thing about Julio’s life. Talk about having a cosmic connection. That third book is finished, but is collecting dust somewhere in a closet or box in the basement. I called it Out Of Control and perhaps one day I’ll find it, update it and get it published. Stranger things could happen, eh?

Speaking of that book, it actually became a pivotal point in my writing as it brought about another epiphany, but this time it wasn’t me who had the aha moment. Shortly after my first book was rejected by Harlequin in 1983, Alberta Culture offered a week-long writers retreat. The romance workshop category was conducted by Judith Duncan who wrote Superromances for Harlequin.  She saw something in my writing that gave me hope. Months later, after I’d sent her several chapters of my latest story, we were discussing Samantha and Raphael over the phone when she suddenly let out a gasp and went silent. Even after all these years I still remember the amazement in her voice from her epiphany as she described two scenarios. “Imagine Samantha in a long green gown with jewels in her hair, singing on a concert stage…or imagine Samantha in a white pant suit flagging down a taxi in New York…which heroine would you choose to write about?” There was no hesitation on my part: the historical heroine. In her infinite wisdom, she had suddenly realized my writing style was more suited for historical romance.

However, that story was so entrenched in my mind as a contemporary that I knew I couldn’t turn it into an historical. So, when I returned from a great vacation in New Brunswick in 1987, I’d come up with a new story, I phoned Judith and told her about it and she said “I hope it’s an historical.” It wasn’t, but I quickly realized my Rachel could just as easily be traveling East on the train in the 1880s instead of driving a white convertible in the 1990s, and it became my first historical…also collecting dust somewhere.

By the way, since the mid-80s, Julio became my favorite singer and remains #1 to this day. I think he’s #1 with a lot of other fans, too. Besides his incredible voice, I have always loved his humility. And his son, Enrique, ain’t bad, either <grin>.

So, there you have a little glimpse into my heart and mind and what makes me tick as a writer. After my initial rejection in 1983, fear of failure, as in having my manuscript rejected, kept me from submitting to an editor for a dozen years, despite Judith’s encouragement. In 2004 Beneath A Horse Thief Moon won the Readers Choice Award at a romance writers conference in Calgary. The editor I met there blew me away by asking  for both books (I had hoped she’d ask for three chapters). Months passed; my hopes soared. And crashed when I received “the” letter in 2005. It was a wonderful rejection letter. At the same time, my mother was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and my writing went on the back burner again and stayed there long after my mother’s passing. 

Then in 2017 a dear on-line friend I’d never met urged me to submit to Prairie Rose Publications and I promised I would. My conscience wouldn’t let me procrastinate because I believe in keeping promises. So eternal thanks to Judith Duncan for her encouragement, Jacquie Rogers for her “prodding” and to my editor, Cheryl Moss Pierson for publishing my stories. And to writers reading this blog if you haven't become cross-eyed or gone to sleep over this long post—never give up on your dreams.

Josh’s story, Beneath A Desperado Moon, will be published some time this year. In the meantime, here’s a little excerpt when we first meet him in Beneath A Horse Thief Moon.

“Ma’am, is this man bothering you?” a deep male voice drawled.

Sara jumped.

Chase reached for his Colts.

“Forgotten us already, have you, Chase?”

Thank God!  Chase whooped and leaped off the porch. “What's to remember, Josh?”

Managing his startled horse, Joshua Hunter laughed, his teeth white against his black mustache. He was dressed in solid black from his Stetson to his dusty boots. Behind him on a black stallion, grinning broadly, was a golden bear of a man in a brightly striped Mexican poncho.

“A fox in a hen house makes more noise than you two. About time you got here.”

Sara never moved, just stared. “You know these men?”

“Sure do. Friends of mine from Montana.”

“What are they doing here?”

“I asked them to come.”

“Why?”

“Because you need protection, Sara.”

“I can't afford to pay two men.”

“I can.”

“The last time I checked this was still my ranch.”

“Only as long as you can hang onto it!”

“Woman trouble?” Josh said, his voice smooth as cream. “Need some help?”

“Nothing I can't handle.” Chase shot Josh a warning look. “Keep your paws to yourself, Josh. That goes for Mutt back there, too.”

Laughing, Josh held up his hands. “Whatever you say, Chase. You are the boss.” He made no effort to hide the amusement in his green eyes or from his voice.

“I don't want anything to do with any of you!” Sara snapped.

“Sara doesn't mean to be rude. She's just been through a rough time fending off outlaws and cattle rustlers.”

“Does that include fendin’ you off, too?” the bear of a man said, barely controlling his mirth.

“That is all right, ma’am,” Josh cut in. “No offense taken.” Dismounting, he removed his Stetson, revealing rumpled black hair, and stuck out his free hand. He smiled when Sara hesitantly shook it. “I am Joshua Hunter. My friends call me Josh. And this big galoot behind me is Michael J. Sutton. Everyone calls him Mike…amongst other things.”

Mike whipped off his brown hat, revealing a long rope of wavy golden hair tied back in a tail. He leaned down from his horse and swallowed up Sara's small hand in his big one and in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder, said, “I'm Mike, Miz Sara. And you can call me anythin' you want just as long as you call me for supper.” His huge grin could swallow Texas.

Sara laughed, surprised that she liked Mike instantly and was not intimidated by his size.”

“Can you forget about your gut for once?” Josh teased.

Mike grinned. “I try, but it keeps growlin' at me.” The blond giant dismounted and stood a head taller than his friends.

Sara looked up, a long way up. “Oh, my, your Mama must have fed you real good.”

“Yup, she surely did, and twice on Sundays.”

Everyone laughed.

FOR THE LOVE OF WORDS

FOR THE LOVE OF WORDS – by Elizabeth Clements

     Writers love words and fill pages with them. I love discovering new words, but if the word is too unfamiliar, it has pulled me out of the story to ponder the meaning when the context leaves me clueless. When I head for the dictionary, the “mood” created in the story evaporates and I am once more brought to my own reality.

     We have been told in writing courses to keep it simple, to write at the level of a sixth-grader and this is what newspapers employ. But what’s the fun in that when there are so many deliciously wonderful words out there? The dictionary is full of them. The more syllables in a word, the more interesting they become, and have a rhythm all their own. There are also one-syllable words that can pack a punch.

     I recently binge-watched a new series on Netflix called “The Witcher”. I admire the imagination that went into the creation of the creatures and critters and was immediately pulled into the dark and mysterious world of another time. It was definitely medieval and yet it was much more. Unique yet familiar in its plot but spellbinding in its depiction. Dangerous times when it’s best to close the shutters at night and stuff rags around windows to not emit any light for lurking evil. So when our valiant hero drops the succinct f-bomb, for the first time, I’m stopped dead.

Yes, research has supported the word exists since the 15^th century, yet to me it seems far too modern. I’ve been a movie-goer since I was a child and in the hundreds of movies I’ve watched growing up, I never encountered that word until Hollywood decided in the late 1960s to add expletives (and explicit violence) to some movies to make them more “realistic”. Perhaps that trend can be blamed as far back as Gone With The Wind when Rhett Butler declared, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” To the best of my knowledge, I think that was the first time an expletive was used in a movie and it created shock waves and quite probably set a precedent.

     Also, to this day I have never forgotten my stunned reaction to watching Clockwork Orange—for me a most shocking view of violence for this naïve and sheltered farm girl. Then along came Bonnie and Clyde and in my opinion, the 1960’s brought a new age in movies and a definite loss of innocence evolved. So, is it any wonder that we hear children these days uttering words as they play which would have had my mouth scrubbed out with soap when I was their age? Astonishing is the fact that growing up, I never heard the f-bomb, although my step-dad used the Lord’s name in vain quite often.

I think expletives, besides being succinct, are used for shock value—at least originally. I read somewhere that the use of the f-bomb shows a lack of imagination on the part of the writer. This can be argued, although I admit I don’t like the word and only once—in extreme agitation, did I not only use it once, but three times in rapid succession as I viewed my upended beef casserole splattered on the floor. My sons were very young and very shocked and still love to bring it up when we reminisce around the family table after a good meal.

The f-bomb is most often used in a display of intense emotion or action. When used, that word does not require additional elaboration, such as, he said angrily. I think my little anecdote can testify to that.

     I love writing but sometimes it can be frustrating when I seek that elusive word that precisely describes what I want to say. While writing my first draft I’m content to let the words flow (or stumble) and just get the story down. Editing, on the other hand, can be an exercise in frustration. I have been amazed I’ve spent an hour on one paragraph. One time I remember I had written a perfect description and accidentally lost it and mentally beat myself up trying to replicate it. That was on a word processor dinosaur from the 80’s that didn’t have the cut and paste function of the current computer programs. And I never got the rewrite worded so perfectly like the first time.

I recently watched Pride and Prejudice for the nth time and was captivated anew by the way Elizabeth and Darcy spoke with such elegance that I found myself leaning forward to catch every word.  Keira Knightley, with her beautiful English voice, captured the essence of Victorian romance with her impeccable enunciation, thanks in part to the screenwriter’s skill with the speech of that era.               Amazingly, my husband has watched the film numerous times, too—sometimes even without me.

I love big words and believe what’s the point of even having them if we’re advised to stick to simple words in our writing. I remember the first time I heard gobsmacked. I had to think for a moment what it meant—gob and smacked. Oh, how delicious an image that conjures. One can almost titter over that one.  And that ridiculously long but whimsical word in Mary Poppins…supercalifragilisticexpialidocious (I had to go to Google to ensure I spelled it right) automatically makes me smile.

      One word, however, that does not make me smile is procrastination. It resembles me far too much. Procrastination has been the bane of my existence, most noticeably as I grew older. Yet, as I ponder over when that trait got the best of me, I realize exactly when it became my biggest vice: porridge!

      Porridge and cabbage rolls with sauerkraut are the most vile foods created. And one perhaps the most vile—boiled spinach. But I digress. Porridge was the breakfast food in winter and my mother made it with water (not milk like a friend of hers). I would stare at this gob of glue in my bowl that not even sugar could improve and procrastinate lifting a disgusting spoonful to my mouth until it was time to run for the bus. I got away with that tactic a few times…until one night it was my supper. Thankfully time has dulled further horrors of that loathsome food, although I admit porridge can be reasonably palatable when cooked with milk, then a little cream and a good dollop of strawberry jam or cinnamon and sugar. I loved Cream of Wheat which was a treat when company came to stay and the guest cooked it <grin>.

     Would you believe I never had pizza until I was nearly nineteen and never had Chinese food until my twenties? But to this day I still love the fragrance of fresh-baked bread. Mondays was bread and laundry day and as I ran into the house after school, the buns were just finished and four loaves were in the oven and potato soup and dumplings simmered on the stove. I couldn’t wait until supper; I’d steal a bun and tear it open and stuff the insides into my mouth and sometimes I was quick enough to grab a second one before my mother caught me. No wonder that bread, to this day, is my favorite comfort food. And potato soup.

     What foods bring back memories for you, either good memories or not so palatable?

Here is an excerpt from the first book of my trilogy, Beneath A Horse Thief Moon that involves food. Mike gets his own story in Beneath A Fugitive Moon:

      Mike whipped off his brown hat, revealing a long rope of wavy golden hair tied back in a tail. He leaned down from his horse and swallowed up Sara's small hand in his big one and in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder, said, “I'm Mike, Miz Sara. And you can call me anythin' you want just as long as you call me for supper.” His huge grin could swallow Texas.

Sara laughed, surprised that she liked Mike instantly and was not intimidated by his size.”

“Can you forget about your gut for once?” Josh teased.

Mike grinned. “I try, but it keeps growlin' at me.” The blond giant dismounted and stood a head taller than his friends.

Sara looked up, a long way up. “Oh, my, your Mama must have fed you real good.”

“Yup, she surely did, and twice on Sundays.”

Everyone laughed.

“All funnin' aside, Miz Sara,” Mike said. “We're here to help. We don't expect no pay from you, nor would we take it. Not even from this big jackass.” He playfully slapped Chase on the back, nearly bringing Chase to his knees.

“That goes for me, too,” Josh said, nodding.

“Won't you come in and have a cup of coffee and some pie I just made?” Sara said.

“Pie! Now that's the best offer I've had in a month of Sundays,” Mike rumbled and smacked his lips in anticipation. “She a good cook, Chase?”

“Wait till you taste her stew.”

For such big men, their footsteps were quiet as they filed in after Sara. Mike sniffed loudly. “Son of a bitch, somethin' smells good.”

“That's why it's called sonofabitch stew,” Chase said.

“I think I'm in love.” Mike gave Sara a smile that could make an angel give up her wings. “That smells mighty good.”

            “If you hold your mouth just right you might even get some for supper.” Chase released a silent sigh. Everything was going to be fine now that his two friends had arrived.

---

New Release -- Beneath a Fugitive Moon (Prairie Moon Trilogy Book 2) by Elizabeth Clements

Beautiful Jolene Reynolds is on a quest. Is there a man in this world who will love her, kiss her, and treasure her like her father does her mother? It seems that every bachelor in the territory is interested in her—and though the clock is ticking, she has to wonder…is it truly a pursuit of the heart, or is it because of what she’ll inherit? When handsome Mike Sutton rides back into her life her search is over—at least, in her own heart. Mike intrigues her with his laughing eyes and quick wit…but surely, if he felt the same interest, wouldn’t he try to steal one kiss? So…why hasn’t he?

Deputy U.S. Marshal Mike Sutton has been besotted with Jolene for two solid years—and now, he’s got her all to himself. But his honor won’t let him make the most of the perfect situation. He’s promised his best friend, Chase, that he’ll safeguard Jolene until her father’s return from his art show back East—and he’s not about to let Chase down. Though he’s faced deadly outlaws without flinching, he’s on shaky ground emotionally when he holds Jolene in his arms. Young, beautiful, and educated—she’s too good for him. One kiss could be his undoing.

Trouble that has been simmering comes to a dangerous boil, forcing Mike and Jolene to become fugitives—and depend only on one another. Can they finally be honest with their feelings and find love BENEATH A FUGITIVE MOON…

Saddle up! Author Elizabeth Clements is blessed with a true Western voice, which lassoes the reader and takes them on an emotional ride. —Deborah Macgillivray, author of the Dragons of Challon series

EXCERPT

Cypress Hills

District of Assiniboine, Canada, 1899

     Two shots shattered the heated stillness of the June evening.

     Deputy U.S. Marshal Mike Sutton reined in his stallion and looked around him. Nothing moved in the sweltering heat, not even a blade of green prairie grass.

     More shots punctured the air, muffled by the hills. Mike nudged Blue into a gallop up the sloping coulee. When he reached the top, the gold-streaked sunset sky silhouetted two riders charging after a buggy pulled by a pair of black horses running at full gallop. Something pink billowed out from the sides of the buggy.

     Mike’s heart lurched. A woman held the reins.

     “Stop shooting!” he yelled. “You’re spooking the—what the hell?” She’s urging the horses faster, not hauling on the reins. Outlaws!