What's a cowboy gladiator, you're wondering?
Think about it. Here's one definition: "A gladiator was an armed combatant who entertained audiences in the Roman Republic and Roman Empire in violent confrontations with other gladiators"
Although rodeo riders aren't armed with anything more that courage and maybe a touch of bravado, they face violent confrontations not with other cowboys or cowgirls but with animals.
Once the idea hit me, probably after watching Gladiator starring Russell Crowe for another time (I mean, hey, it did win an Oscar for best picture), then it wasn't long until a story followed.
The Cowboy Gladiator is that story. It will be released on November 18 from Evernight Publishing.
Here's the blurb, followed by the dedication (which is very special to me) and an excerpt:
After a near fatal rodeo injury, Asher McCard is determined he’ll ride again and compete, especially now he’s decided that cowboys are modern day gladiators. His fiancée, Charlotte, doesn’t agree and she breaks their long engagement. As he gets back in the saddle, Asher is out to win back Charlotte as well as his manhood. When he learns she’s carrying his child, it’s not enough to change his mind but when the first rodeo of the season proves deadly for another rider, it’s a game changer for Asher. His priorities shift toward marriage and family – if Charlotte will agree.
Dedication:
When I needed to know about black powder rifles, Randy was there. If I had questions related to a work in progress about cars, computers, or many other things, Randy had answers. When I got my first computer that could go online way back in the day, Randy built it. Last year, my brother-in-law Randy Murphy passed away but he is not forgotten. I dedicate this story, set in the county he called home, to his memory.
Excerpt:
Cowboys, especially the ones who rodeoed, were like gladiators, Asher decided after watching Russell Crowe’s movie too many times. They both competed where the odds for survival were poor and spectators watched with glee, some of them with a thirst for blood. The realization came to him during his long convalescence after a horse, aptly named Satan’s Get, injured him so much that he almost died.
He did die, but the medical staff brought him back to extreme pain, a slow recovery, and money troubles. Worst, the docs told him he shouldn’t rodeo anymore and strongly suggested he not even ride a horse. In the long months when he healed, he watched a lot of movies to pass the time. Gladiator was one of them, the rest were mostly Westerns. When he tried to tell Lottie about it, she shook her head and wrote it off as delirium, but it wasn’t.
In those days of ancient Rome, gladiators were heroes, celebrities, the closest thing to movie stars, a lot like rodeo riders. Most of them were slaves, forced to fight but it brought them a sense of pride and manhood. The same held true for the few free men who fought, and some won their freedom through courage and skill.
And the one thing besides Lottie that Asher put all his hopes and dreams into was that he would ride his horse again and he would compete again, even if it killed him.
We who are about to die salute you.
From the moment he roused each morning to the time he lay down his weary bones at night, Asher hurt. At the age of 35, he possessed the body of an old man due to damage, old injuries, and scars. A good twenty years spent in rodeo competition had taken a heavy toll, physically, emotionally, and financially. Still recovering from a broken collarbone and a host of other injuries sustained last November, Asher McCard hadn’t competed on the circuit since. His shoulder contributed to the pain but his back also hurt, his bad knee caused him trouble, and his right ankle remained unstable.
Some of the pain was emotional, not physical. After his difficult recovery, his fiancée handed back his ring when he told her he would ride rodeo again, at least one more year. Asher had to—he needed to prove something to himself as well as the world at large. But for Lottie, that was the final straw. His life became lonely and emptier but he muddled through, one day, one long night at a time.
Many nights he bunked in his rump-sprung old recliner although that did little to ease his discomfort. His bed was a little better but to reach it, he had to climb the stairs, often a painful journey. On this morning, when he rose, he stumbled into the bathroom to piss, then into the kitchen, where he made coffee, black with a little sugar. Once the caffeine got him started, Asher took whatever over-the-counter pain medication he chose for the day. He had all of them lined up like toy soldiers on the shelf above the kitchen sink: ibuprofen, naproxen sodium, and acetaminophen. As far as Asher could tell, none knocked out all the pain but each helped a little. On the worst days, he bypassed them all in favor of straight Jack Daniels.
Sometimes he ate breakfast and often he didn’t. Although most of the time Asher could claim a cast-iron gut and eat as he pleased, stress messed up his stomach. Since last fall’s injuries, anxiety and tension had become daily companions. The stack of unpaid bills, medical and otherwise, on the kitchen table stood testament to that. One look at those could cramp his belly faster than green apples.
Although the calendar confirmed it was March, Asher saw no sign of spring outside
