Betrayed: Powerful Stories of Kick-Ass Crime Survivors

by Allison Brennan

  “And I know what you’re thinking, Mister Graham. Why did I stay? What fool would stay with a man like that? Why didn’t I tell someone?

  “Look around you, Graham. There’s nowhere to go— there was nowhere to go from the day that train station vanished from my sight.”

  At last, Graham spoke. “But what of your neighbors? Can’t they help you?”

  She stared through him, to a place beyond physical sight. “You’ve not seen Nathan Flaherty. I told you how hard his hands are. His heart’s as hard, and he’s stronger than most. After we got here, we went into Laramie once, and I saw men— big men— step aside as we went into the mercantile. Later, I overheard two of them talking. They said Flaherty had argued with a cowhand once, and as the cowhand reached for his gun, Nathan swung and, well, he smashed the man in his ribs. One of the ribs pierced the cowboy’s heart, they said. But the cowboy had tried to draw, so they let Nathan go. And after that, people moved aside. And no one spoke— no one speaks— to Nathan Flaherty’s woman. No matter if they see bruises, and no matter if she has to live in a hole in the ground.”

  Her fists clenched at her sides. “They’re useless, all of them. I learned that as well. I tried to run once, after that first trip to Laramie. I went on foot, and found a cabin downstream about eight miles, not too far from the river. I asked them to let me stay, but when they realized I was his? They gave me some water, but sent me on my way.

  “He found me soon enough, and told me he was taking me home. I tried to run, but he rode me down and pulled me up by the hair. A handful of it ripped out, but I struggled. Until he told me that our ‘neighbors’ had told him which way I went. And that’s when I gave up. He tied my hands behind my back with a piggin’ string and had me sit in front of him as we rode back.

  “When we got to the house, he shoved me off the horse. I thought I had broken an elbow— I had no way to catch myself— and I screamed. That’s when he laughed, and I know now I’d rather hear him curse me than laugh.

  “He said”— she closed her eyes tightly— “He said I hadn’t learned anything when God marked me, so he’d see if I could wear his mark as well.”

  Graham’s jaw tightened. “He beat you again.”

  “No,” she said. “He had a running iron in the fire.” She turned partly away from him, and eased her dress below the collarbone, and there, on the left shoulder blade, he saw the scars, the angles, the top halves, he knew, of an N and F. “He rubbed in ashes so the mark wouldn’t fade.”

  Graham had seen pain and death before, from the States War, from the work of nature and rock falls and weather and floodwaters, from the work of red men and white men and brown. But his gut tightened as revulsion flooded through him. “What kind of man does that?” he asked, and although he didn’t need an answer, she offered one.

  “Nathan Flaherty does that. Now, Mister Graham, why don’t you ride down that creek and up that river to Fort Laramie, and forget about the rough-faced Philadelphia girl, and get away while you—” And she stopped, and the sound of a horse’s walk was audible. And she threw herself into the doorway of the sod house like Lazarus hurrying back into the certainty of his tomb, as Nathan Flaherty rode into the clearing.

  The man’s a giant, Graham thought. And he knew some of it was seeing Flaherty on horseback, but as he swung down from his horse, Graham knew the man was easily six inches above his own six foot one, and likely carried eighty pounds more, much of it in his shoulders and arms. He wore a wide-brimmed brown felt hat with a busted crown, the kind he had seen the occasional Indian wear back in Dakota. The shirt was homespun— Graham knew this man wasn’t going to find store-bought clothes anywhere.

  Flaherty looked down at Graham like a man might look at a possum in his garbage. “Hope you aren’t tired,” he said. “You were just leaving.” And he glanced at the door of the silent sod house.

  “I was,” Graham said neutrally. And stood there.

  “So, git.”

  “I will,” Graham said, “but can you answer me a question first?”

  Flaherty looked at him with mild amusement, as if the possum had bared teeth and hissed at him. “Maybe.”

  “What kind of bastard advertises for a wife if he’s just gonna beat her like a dog with mange? What kind of mama did you have to turn out like that, Flaherty? I’m guessing Flaherty was her name, because you’re nothing but a fatherless son of a bitch.”

  “I’ll kill you for that,” Flaherty said, in a tone of voice he might have used to mention that it might rain later in the week. “I’ll snap your back and throw you to the hogs to eat.”

  “Too late,” Graham said. “Looks like they’ve eaten something went right through them. About six and a half feet worth.”

  “Big talk from a man with a gun to a man without one,” Flaherty said.

  “Big answer from a wife beater.” He paused. “Turn her loose. Give her some traveling money and send her away.”

  “What makes you think I have money?”

  “You haven’t spent it on proving up this land, Flaherty. Give her some money. Send her away, just let her get shut of you.”

  The giant smiled. “Nope. Can’t do that. She’s property. Got my brand on her and everything.” He paused for a moment. “I guess I could feed both of you to the hogs.”

  “And I guess I could shoot you down like a mad dog,” Graham said, “But I don’t reckon that would prove a lot, and I don’t think you’re enough of a man to waste lead on.

  “I think I’m gonna have to break you, the way you’ve broken that woman in there.”

  “God beat me to it,” Flaherty said. “Woman that ugly oughta be happy for any kind of attention.”

  The woman stepped back into the doorway. “Get out of here, Graham. Just go.”

  “And let this son of a whore follow my back trail? No, ma’am.” Graham dropped his gun belt. “Come on, big man. I’m about to tear down your playhouse.”

  Flaherty strode into him quickly, trying to get close, but Graham ducked and threw him over his hip. The giant hit the ground on his back, and Graham moved for a kick to the big man’s head, but Flaherty rolled aside and scrambled to his feet. “You’re faster than you look,” Graham said. “Shame you’re facing someone’ll hit you back.”

  Flaherty didn’t reply, just edged toward Graham in a half crouch, pawing toward him with his right hand. Graham circled, trying to get into range while avoiding the giant’s reach. Flaherty swiped at him, and Graham slipped past the big man’s arm and landed a punch to the side of his neck. He felt like he had slapped the side of the horse Flaherty had ridden in, and stepped to the big man’s left.

  Flaherty feinted a right and came back with a left, with the same speed that had surprised Graham before. Graham was able to get his right arm in the way, but the impact sent a lightning bolt of numbness from his forearm to the shoulder. It half spun him, and while he was out of position, the big man closed and tried for a bear hug. Graham raked a spur down Flaherty’s leg, and wriggled out as the big man howled.

  “We can do this all day,” Graham said. Flaherty dove at his legs, but Graham sidestepped and got a kick into the Irishman’s ribs. Flaherty rolled back up, and the two circled each other again. The big man tagged Graham with a left to the crown of his head, and Graham saw the white flash the woman had described and staggered backward a step, two steps, and felt his back against the wall of the house.

  “Time to feed the hogs,” Flaherty said, and grabbed Graham in another crushing embrace. Graham’s left arm was pinned against his body. He tried to box Flaherty’s left ear, but his right arm felt heavy, and as he swung it, Flaherty tucked his chin against his chest and shrugged, thwarting the slap. He ground Graham into the side of the house, and the cowboy felt as if he were being crushed by a railroad car. The world began to turn gray, and he was thinking the last thing he would ever know was the reek of the giant’s stinking breath when he heard the roar of his pistol as Flaherty’s wife shot her husband in the right ear.
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br />   The dead man’s arms spasmed even more tightly, and Graham was sure he felt a rib go, and then the two combatants slid to the ground, Graham sitting and Flaherty’s corpse leaning into him and pinning him to the wall. The brutal grip slackened, and as Graham’s head and vision cleared, he smelled blood and gun smoke. He wriggled out from under the dead man, whose widow stood a couple of feet away, Graham’s smoking pistol at her side.

  Graham sat in the dirt, aching each time he inhaled and happier than he had ever been to hurt. Yep, definitely a rib.

  The woman’s voice sounded flat and distant. “I killed him.”

  “Yes, ma’am, and I’m awfully grateful.”

  “Shut up,” she said, and Graham thought that seemed reasonable, so he just sat there and scooted back from Flaherty’s body.

  After a time, she said again, “I killed him.” And then she fired into the giant’s corpse again and again, stopping only when the revolver was empty. After a click, she dropped the gun on the ground. Graham eased over and picked it up, holding it in his lap.

  “What do I do now?” she asked no one in particular.

  Graham shrugged, though it hurt. “I suppose you could go into Laramie and tell them what happened. Once they see— well, once they see your back— I don’t think there’ll be a problem.”

  “I don’t think I want to do that,” she said.

  “Well, is there any money?”

  “Some,” she said. “He wouldn’t let me have it. It’s inside.”

  “I don’t think he’ll complain now. Go get it.” She disappeared into the house. Graham slowly got to his feet, staggered a few steps, and leaned against the chestnut gelding. After a few minutes, the woman came out with a couple of bags and loaded the wagon. She hitched Flaherty’s horse to the wagon and put her bags in the back.

  Graham spoke. “I don’t mean to tell you what to do, but do you have enough for a train ticket back East?” She nodded. “Maybe you should buy one.”

  She looked at him— straight at him, and he thought the birthmark was hardly noticeable; she had been marked in other ways, far more deeply. She had suffered, and she had killed a man, and some of those marks would be visible, and others wouldn’t. “What will I do back there?”

  “What you did here,” he said. “You’ll live. Sometimes that’s the best you can do, and every time, it’s enough.”

  She nodded again. “I have more than enough for that.” After a pause, she said, “Do you want some of it?”

  “No ma’am. You more than earned it.” She walked to the wagon; Graham gingerly got on the chestnut gelding. They headed along the creek, and neither of them spoke, and when they got to the North Platte, she turned east toward Philadelphia, and he turned west toward Fort Laramie.

  It wasn’t until two days later that he realized he had never learned her first name.

  # # #

  Intrepid Woman

  by Kathryn Jane

  Almost there.

  Roof shingles scraped Rachel’s belly when she slid over the edge and momentarily hung there, about six feet above the perfect green lawn… and freedom.

  She closed her eyes, sliding the rest of the way, trying to stay loose and concentrating on her center of balance in hope of staying upright when she landed.

  But she hit something unexpected, got her feet tangled, and then tipped over, crashing sideways into a hard object before crumpling onto the cold, hard concrete sidewalk.

  Rachel!

  Instinct kicked in hard and fast. Curled her into a tight ball. Shut down her senses and squeezed her eyes shut—ready for the blow of a well-aimed boot.

  Rachel, it’s okay.

  Definitely wasn’t him. She sucked in air, and the screaming agony in her chest barely allowed her to lift her head and glance around.

  No one there.

  There’s a lady right on the other side of the hedge but she’ll be going in the house in a minute. You need to call out to her for help now. Right now.

  She knew from experience the speaker couldn’t help her.

  Yell now!

  “Help!” She’d long ago learned to do as she was told, but the resulting sound was frightening. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d raised her voice.

  Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs, but she stifled a groan—showing weakness always made things worse.

  Again.

  “Help!” Considering how much each breath hurt, the strength she heard in her own voice came with a twinge of pride.

  A door slammed, and hope drained out of Rachel. Until she heard the motor of the neighbor’s garage opening, then footsteps growing closer.

  “Ohmygoodness!” A woman Rachel had often watched tend her garden, sweep her patio, and play with tiny children, now crouched beside her. “What happened? You’re hurt. I knew it. Why didn’t I call someone when I heard—”

  “Cleaning the windows. Fell.” Lying was always so easy.

  The woman stared up at the second-story windows, then back at Rachel. “There’s no ladder.”

  “Climbed out.” Her pail and squeegee were still up there. She’d staged it perfectly, but screwed up the landing, and now what was she going to do?

  “No worries, honey. I’m Noreen, and I’m going to get you the help you need,” she said, while plunging a hand into the neckline of her shirt and presumably into the bra encasing the enormous breasts not far from Rachel’s face.

  Noreen dug out a cell phone, squinted hard while poking at the numbers, and Rachel’s mind went to where she was safe—no matter what happened around her. She was a kid again, under her pretty turquoise duvet with Tink curled against her tummy, purring and purring while she rubbed under his chin. He was warm and soft, and the best friend a girl could have.

  “Rachel?”

  She didn’t want to go back. Ignored the voice.

  “Rachel?” The hand on her face was gentle.

  She swam to the surface. And pain swamped her.

  “Rachel? I’m John. I’m a paramedic, and I’m here to help you.”

  She blinked.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Fell.”

  He pointed to the roof above. “From there?”

  “Yep.”

  He slid a C-collar behind her neck and wrapped it around. Fastened the Velcro. “Feet first? Head first?”

  “Feet.”

  “Where do you hurt?”

  “Ribs. Left lateral. Hit the planter.”

  With sharp scissors, he quickly exposed the area. Did a visual, then manual examination of the area, and before long, she was strapped to a spine board, being lifted onto a stretcher.

  Noreen squeezed her hand. “These guys will take good care of you.”

  She had no doubt. She’d be a paramedic herself if Richard hadn’t interfered. She mistook his motives back then. But now she knew he wanted total control—something he would never have if she went out on calls and finished training. He made light of her being the top of her class and put his foot down. Insisted training was a waste since she wouldn’t have time to play at being a first responder after they were married. She would be too busy traveling, entertaining, and running their exciting lives.

  Odd how life heads south just when you think you’re pointed north.

  Rachel didn’t know this crew, but the ones she met during training were remarkable human beings. Now it felt weird to be on the receiving end of the care she’d learned to give.

  “Rachel?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I was asking if you have any allergies.”

  “No.”

  “Are you on any medications?”

  “No. Nothing.” Richard didn’t even take aspirin. Wouldn’t have it or any other drugs in the house. Except her birth control pills. Those he was completely on board with.

  For the remainder of the ride to the hospital she tried to keep her husband and his reactions out of her mind.

  She closed her eyes when they wheeled her in
to the ER, prayed they didn’t pass anyone she knew, or worse, anyone who knew Richard.

  By the time they undid the safety belts, grabbed the sheet she was lying on, and slid her onto the bed, pain was radiating through every cell of her body—not an unfamiliar sensation, but today, it was self-inflicted, and how stupid was that?

  “You okay?” asked the attendant who was bundling up the rest of the bedding and stuffing it in a laundry bag. When she didn’t answer, he touched her hand. “They’ll give you something for the pain any minute now.”

  Rachel managed a half smile. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

  “No bother, it’s what we do.” He and his partner towed the gurney out of sight. Probably glad to be rid of her and back to tending people who really needed them.

  She lay perfectly still, trying to power past the pain. Experience had taught her she could survive anything as long as she could get a good lungful of air.

  But being no stranger to broken ribs, she knew it would be weeks before she could inhale easily.

  A nurse came in and asked questions while efficiently stripping away the rest of Rachel’s clothing, sticking on electrode patches, wrapping a BP cuff, and applying a plastic clip to her finger. “We’ll keep an eye on things until we’re certain you’re stable, and those ribs aren’t going to move around,” she said while she plugged leads into the large monitor beside the bed, then dropped Rachel’s clothing into the plastic sack hanging at the head of the bed.

  Green, blue, and pink lines danced across the screen to where matching numbers blinked on the side, illustrating how alive she was. The cuff around her arm hissed as it inflated, and she felt her pulse beat against the plastic before the pressure eased. The oximeter clamped onto her finger felt all kinds of weird.

  In spite of dozens of injuries over the past three years, she hadn’t been inside a hospital since she was twelve, when she sprained her ankle playing baseball. How ironic that what brought her here now was her own stupidity. What the heck had she been thinking?

  God, how she wished she could be certain Richard wouldn’t return early. He was supposed to be gone for three full days—his longest trip ever—but he often came home much sooner than he was supposed to, probably determined to catch her doing something wrong in his absence.