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  A Shattered Wife

  By

  Diana Salyers

  Copyright © 2013 Outlandish Originals

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief (200 words or less) quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All characters depicted are of legal age.

  PROLOGUE

  On a particularly cold morning in late fall, Bill Landry woke at his usual pre-dawn hour and hurried through his farm chores. There weren't many these days; the old farm no longer supported herds of livestock or fields of corn and wheat. In the barn, his misty breath mingled with heavy silence and the aroma of hay.

  Winter's coming, he thought, walking back to the house. After a big breakfast, he made a last minute decision to check out the old storage barn and get in a little deer hunting at the same time. White-tails were plentiful on his acreage here in rural Virginia, and he just might get a clear shot at that old buck. He’d been tracking it for years.

  He was a burly man, heavily muscled and tall. His size was only emphasized by his soft plaid shirt, which bulged at the shoulders and across his massive chest. The 60-odd years he had lived had only improved his handsome, rugged appearance by adding a few lines to his face and some silver at his temples. He was capable and intelligent; a born leader who radiated a vibrant and infectious energy.

  Pulling on heavy hiking boots, Bill checked to see that he had plenty of shells, then picked up his gun - a powerful 30.06 with telescopic sights. With a quick kiss and a pat on his wife’s backside, he left.

  Martha Landry never questioned how long her husband would be gone. He hunted frequently on their property and she saw no reason to worry. Actually, she was happy to be free of his dominating personality for a few hours. As much as she loved him, she had a hard time getting anything done when he was underfoot. Watching him saunter across the frosted grass with the fluid walk of a much younger man, she had no idea it would be the last time she would ever admire the sight.

  Bill shivered inside his jacket. Even though he wore two shirts underneath, the wind felt cold - much colder than the thermometer reading - but he decided against going back for a heavier coat. He didn’t like to admit it, but this year he found it more and more difficult to stay warm. He decided to make do by buttoning his jacket closer around his thick neck and putting on the fur-lined gloves he kept in his pocket.

  Walking quickly toward the ridge, he finally topped a rise that allowed him to see his farm. The early morning sun washed across his face and sparkled out across his rolling pastures. He surveyed the crystal kingdom, enjoying the powerful feeling of ownership. His breath billowed in puffs of steam and, on impulse, he raised his hands above his head and bellowed with pure joy. As far as the eye could see, from ridge to ridge, this was his land.

  It hadn’t always been that way, though. The land had first belonged to Bill’s grandfather and then to his father. A vivid image of Marshall Landry’s laughing face came to mind. Bill had learned his excellent hunting and woodsman skills from his father, along with other, more unpleasant lessons. One in particular was imprinted on Bill’s mind forever. When he was eight years old, his father lifted him onto the top of a feed barrel in the barn and urged the boy to jump, promising to catch him. When the boy jumped, his father backed away, folding his arms and letting him fall to the ground. Laughing at the surprise and hurt on the child's face, the big man said, "Never trust anyone, son."

  That was only part of the Landry creed. "Stand on your own two feet. Don’t depend on anyone. Be a man." It had been drilled into Bill relentlessly over the years: respect the woods, the wildlife and his weapon. Strength and independence were of utmost importance. In fact, the major disappointment in his life had come while trying to continue the tradition. Bill had met with little success when it came to his own son.

  Unlike his father and grandfather, he didn’t have to depend on his skills to survive; hunting was a sport for him, a game. More than just the excitement of stalking and killing a wild animal, Bill was entranced with owning, caring for and using guns. He had the best collection of firearms in three counties.

  With a shake of his head, he cleared away the memories. He knew his father would have been proud of him, and he was proud of himself. He crossed the field with the same quick strides that had brought him up the bank, his boots crunching through the brittle leaves, and entered a huge storage barn. It was at least a hundred and fifty years old, and the seasons had taken their toll on its appearance. Though the wide, rough-hewn boards were weathered, it was still solid and strong. He made a quick check in the dim, dusty interior of the building and saw that everything was secure for the coming winter, as he knew it would be. He strode back into the morning sunshine to circle the big building, assuring himself that the exterior could take another winter.

  Without warning another memory flashed through him like a hot poker, searing his mind with its heat. He turned and looked toward a small window in the loft of the old barn, and laughed aloud, his breath pluming into the cold. How many warm, willing women had spent an afternoon with him up there? Carefully placing his gun against the barn, he lit a cigarette and leaned against the rough planks, letting better memories warm his mind and body like good whiskey.

  A big buck crossed the field to his right, and Bill’s sharp eyes caught the flash of white tail. Moving soundlessly, he butted the rifle against his shoulder and flicked off the safety catch. He took quick, careful aim through the sights and fired at the animal. The deer hesitated slightly, then dived into the shelter of nearby trees and continued running.

  Bill followed the animal’s path on sure, silent feet. When he reached the spot where the animal disappeared, he could still hear the crackling of dried leaves that had been stirred up in its flight. He listened intently for a few seconds and then smiled to himself. The game had just begun, and it looked like a good chase.

  Bill wasn’t worried.

  He always won.

  Smiling, he started down the steep grade, still listening as he made his way through the trees. Suddenly, all he could see was the treetops. He was flat on the ground in the damp, fallen leaves.

  He lay still for a moment, catching his breath, and then carefully pushed himself to a sitting position. One leg was sunk past the knee into a deep hole in the ground that had been painstakingly camouflaged by the many groundhogs in the area. The other leg was twisted outward at an awkward angle. As Bill struggled to free his imprisoned leg, blinding pain shot through his hip and he bit his lip to keep from crying out.

  The deer stopped, too. Only a few yards away, it pricked its ears forward, listening. Alert and poised for flight, it took a few tentative steps in the direction from which it had come.

  "Goddammit!" Bill shouted, and with one last powerful effort, he freed his leg. He had never had a broken bone in his life; had not imagined the pain could be this incredible.

  "Goddamn, fuckin’ groundhogs!" He examined his broken limb. Then he looked up and saw the deer. It stood perfectly still with watchful, almost curious brown eyes, well within firing range. Challenging him.

  The game wasn’t over.

  Breathing quietly through his pain, Bill drew his gun through the leaves and used it as a lever to push himself unsteadily to his feet. He felt lightheaded and nauseous.

  The deer stood still, seeing the movement, yet waiting for the man to make the next move.

/>   Sheer determination forced Bill to ignore the pain and dizziness. He centered the animal’s head in the crosshairs of the scope and squeezed the trigger.

  The shell fired from the man’s gun buried itself deep into the trunk of a large pine tree just above the deer’s head. Instinct took over and the deer bounded away.

  Bill swore again at the pain that was making him feel weak and caused him to miss the perfect target. His breath was coming in little streaming gasps and he suddenly felt clammy. Then he heard leaves rustle again and thought he saw wide, brown eyes challenging him from among dense pine growth farther to his left.

  "You’re asking for it, you bastard," he snarled, continuing to ignore the pain in his leg. Turning awkwardly and taking aim again, he fired.

  The big man lost his balance, and the shell went wild. Moving in a slow motion nightmare, he plunged over the steep embankment. Limbs and briars grabbed at his clothing as if to check his uncontrollable speed, and sharp rocks gouged his chest and shoulders.

  His headlong crash ended with a sudden bone-jarring jolt that knocked him breathless again. Lying at a crazy, twisted angle with his spine lodged painfully against the rough trunk of a tall pine, his breath finally came back in painful, whistling gasps. Scratched, bruised and hurting in places he never thought possible, he tried to shift his position to ease the intense, white-hot pain that had moved from his broken leg to his back.

  Nothing happened. His body failed to respond.

  He tried to calm his pounding heart and assess the damage done by the fall. A combination of sweet-smelling pine needles and crushed, dry leaves made him sneeze. Pain flashed through him like a bolt of lightning. He screamed. After a few moments, he concentrated on moving again and managed to drag himself to a full sitting position.

  He had never imagined such blood chilling agony. It felt as though he had been cut in half and all of the pain from his leg was transferred to his back and spreading out of control through his arms and chest. Yet, he could feel nothing from the waist down. He knew his damaged legs were still there - he could see them - but they refused to obey his commands to move.

  Panic rose within him and he fought to control it. Sweat trickled down his face and dripped off his upper lip onto his unfeeling legs. Somewhere overhead a bird twittered from tree to tree. The sun was much higher in the sky and he wondered if he had passed out. If so, how long had it been? Counting slowly to 100, trying to corral his churning thoughts into some semblance of order, he tried to move his legs again.

  Nothing.

  A low, sinister growl brought his immediate worries to an abrupt halt. Bill looked up to see a mangy, half-starved mongrel crouched about 10 feet away. The animal’s matted fur hugged its stringy body and its yellow eyes were wild with fear, hunger or both. For what seemed like an eternity, Bill and the ravenous dog stared at each other.

  He swallowed hard and looked around him, trying to locate his gun. He had lost it in the fall. He realized that he had no protection.

  Another growl, a little louder. More menacing this time. The dog crept forward on its belly and showed long, pointed yellow teeth. Even at this distance, its breath was hot and foul smelling.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Bill spotted a forked pine branch and pulled it toward him. He was vaguely aware of the sticky resin covering his hands. The animal emitted another deep, rumbling growl, showing more of those pointed yellow teeth.

  With a sudden, jerky movement that brought pain blasting through him again and made the scenery swim sickeningly, Bill struck the ground with the branch and shouted as loud as he could.

  The filthy dog screeched in terror and scurried off into the dense underbrush.

  Bill collapsed back against the tree. His face, chest and arms were covered with cold sweat and in total agony. He rested, willing the pain to go away. When it had eased somewhat, he tapped his left foot gently with the pine branch.

  Nothing.

  He hit it again, harder. No feeling whatsoever. Fear barely flicked through his emotions; he was consumed by anger. He shouted loudly, incoherent and full of rage. At first he cursed the groundhogs, because they dug the holes in his land and then he cursed the deer that openly challenged him. His voice only echoed through the valley. Exhausted and breathing heavily, his head finally sagged against the tree.

  The bird began to sing overhead again. The familiar smells of the forest reached him and he shivered. He had never felt this kind of cold before and wondered, absently, how long it took to freeze to death.

  A faint smile crossed his rugged features and in a weak but steady voice he congratulated the animals on their victory, but reminded them that it was only temporary. Soon he would be in control again and they would all pay dearly for this.

  He always won.

  The sun had reached its zenith and was starting its downward journey across the sky when the heavy blackness of unconsciousness overcame him.

  CHAPTER 1

  Martha busied herself in her home of forty years, but her thoughts kept being interrupted by small pinpricks of worry over her husband’s long absence. He’d been gone for most of the day. She was a small woman with feminine, doll-like features, pale blue eyes and a warm smile, but she wasn’t smiling right now. She was worried about Bill. He was alone, hunting on their large farm, and he wasn’t as young as he used to be. What if he fell? What if he accidentally shot himself? What if…?

  By dusk she was becoming frantic.

  Putting on one of Bill’s big coats, she went outside. The wind hammered against her small frame and snatched her voice away when she called for him. With tears streaming down her frozen cheeks, she blew the horn on the truck repeatedly. That was the signal that she needed him to return home. If he could hear it.

  The only response she received was silence. No answering shot from the forest surrounding their farm, and no Bill walking across the fields.

  She called their nearest neighbor, Michael, and within half an hour the woods were filled with men searching for Bill. She knew he would be furious with her for calling them, but she was alone and afraid. Michael was a friend and he knew Bill - and those woods - better than anyone. The minister's wife and several other women, wives of men in the search party, brought in food and sympathy, crowding into Martha’s big kitchen as if to protect her.

  In little more than an hour, a warning shot let everyone know the search was over. Bill had been found.

  "He’s alive but he’s hurt. I don’t know how bad it is," a young man told Martha as he swept coldly into the kitchen, stomping his feet and blowing into his cupped palms. His face and ears were red and he gratefully accepted a cup of steaming hot coffee. "You’d better call an ambulance."

  The ride to Roanoke in the screaming ambulance seemed interminable. Bill was unconscious, his pale, sunken face covered with an oxygen mask. His left leg was broken in a couple of places, but the EMT seemed more worried about his exposure to the cold and the knot that seemed to be forming on his back. Martha sat beside him and watched the darkness flash by. They had made this trip together in his truck hundreds of times. Why did she suddenly feel so alone and helpless?

  When at long last the ride was over, Bill was whisked away to an emergency room by doctors and nurses that looked as exhausted as Martha felt. She was left behind to complete complicated forms and wait.

  The decision to call their son was a difficult one. Bill was probably already angry with her for calling the neighbors. Father and son rarely got along and he would, no doubt, accuse William of interfering. She looked down at the incomplete paperwork in her lap and there was no question about it. She was going to need help, no matter what her husband thought.

  William lived in Cleveland and Martha could never remember his number. After getting it from the operator, she dialed carefully and listened to ringing that sounded a million miles away.

  "Hello?" It was her daughter-in-law.

  "Beth, this is Martha."

  A quick intake of breath showed her surprise. W
illiam’s parents never called. Martha could hear the children - her grandchildren - giggling in the background and her arms ached to hold them. "Is William there?"

  "Yes. Yes he is. Just a minute."

  "Mom! Are you still there?" William’s voice came on the line, slightly breathless and evidently just as surprised as Beth.

  "Yes. William, there’s been an accident." Now that he was on the line, she was unsure of what to say.

  "An accident?"

  "Yes. We’re at the hospital now. Your dad’s been hurt."

  "How bad is it?"

  "I don’t know yet. Will you come?" Martha hated the pleading note that crept into her voice.

  William sighed heavily. "Sure, Mom, I'll be there as soon as I can." Martha thought he sounded more annoyed than concerned. That done, she waited for the doctor.

  It was nearly midnight when a slim, young doctor strode purposefully down the wide hospital corridor into the waiting area.

  "Mrs. Landry?" he called, looking around at the few people who were gathered there. Martha rose on unsteady legs, unaware of anyone but the tired looking, bearded young man wearing a white coat over his jeans. His soft voice and gentle blue-gray eyes were kind but weary. "My name is Dr. Paul Newsome. I’m treating your husband."

  "Yes?" Martha asked, staring at the stethoscope dangling from his neck.

  Dr. Newsome nodded quickly and said, "Your husband has a broken leg and some slight hypothermia."

  Relief flooded through Martha, making her weak. Bill was alive.

  "What happened?" she asked.

  "We really can’t be sure. I imagine he stepped in a hole, maybe an old fence post hole, and fell. At least, that’s what the dirt on his clothing would indicate."

  Despite the doctor’s reassuring posture, something in his tone told Martha that there was more, news that he hadn’t given her yet. She searched his lean face for some clue.

  Finally, he said, "The fall did some damage to his spinal cord." He paused, took a deep breath, and then hurried on before she could say anything. "Right now he is paralyzed from the waist down. It may be only temporary. We’ll have to wait and see."