The Legend of Anne Southern

THE LEGEND OF ANNE SOUTHERN
First of The Legend Series

By J. Rivers Hodge
With
Brenda Hodge



Chapter 1

Ruse Blackburn

At twenty-seven years of age, Ruse Blackburn was a good-looking devil and he knew it: over six feet tall; with straight, black hair slicked down and parted in the middle; penetrating, dark eyes; and a carefree grin.

Wearing a bloodstained white apron, Ruse stood behind the counter in his father’s shop, his back to a dressed hog; two quarters of beeves; half a dozen smoked hams and an equal number of plucked chickens; four featherless geese; and numerous links of sausage, all hanging on a taut wire next to the back wall.

The mouth-watering odor of smoked meat, hampered by a metallic tint of fresh blood, clouded the air. A swarm of pesky flies buzzed around, most of them drawn to the stench of the scraps tub hidden under the far end of the counter.

Ruse wrapped a seven-bone beef roast in butcher paper for Mrs. Glenda Harvey and grinned for her, no longer an easy task. She smiled back, and he knew the words about to come from her mouth as sure as his surname was Blackburn. He set the package on the counter between them, leaving his hand on it. “There you are, Mrs. Harvey. Shall I charge it to your account?”

She placed her pudgy hand on his bloody paw. “Oh, please, my dear Ruse. I just now remembered, I must go from here to the church and discuss Sunday’s hymns with Pastor Higgins. Could you deliver this package later tonight? My husband returns tomorrow afternoon, and I want him to have a grand supper.”

Ruse winked at the stout, much older woman. This wasn’t his first invitation today and probably not his last. He’d lost interest in intimate acts with women on the last Friday in June after a delivery to Mrs. Ridge, the wife of the owner of the Ridgeville Bank. For deliveries such as this, he sent his younger brother, Tommy. “Perhaps, but I’ll have to come very late.”

Mrs. Harvey’s voice dropped to a coarse whisper. “You won’t disappoint me again, will you? The last time your puny brother showed up with the damned meat. If you can’t handle the job, I’ll take my business to Murphy’s.”

He turned his back and spoke in the direction of the carcasses on the wall. “I understand Mr. Murphy’s meat has been spoiled by age, but if you can tolerate the stench—”

“Listen, don’t let me down,” she hissed and stormed from the store.

Afternoon business would pick up soon. It was almost time for Ruse’s father, out back butchering a steer, to wash up, put on a clean apron, and come inside to help. Ruse dug a slippery beef liver from a bucket, slapped it on the block, and cut thin slices for a customer’s order. Blood pooled from the organ and dripped to the sawdust-covered floor.

The over-the-door bell rang as Miss Penelope Gardner, carrying a large straw basket on her arm, entered the shop. Ruse stood a bit straighter. He gave the young woman, now two years past her debut, his most brilliant smile.

Here was a delivery well worth making, and he enjoyed flirting with witty Penelope. He intended to take advantage of his good looks and marry up, this eligible beauty his prime target.

Her father’s business manufactured wagons, carriages, coaches, and all the related equipment necessary to transport goods and people. They sat well above the Blackburns’ roost on Evanston’s social architecture. The trim, dark-haired woman’s interest in Ruse seemed to be strictly a platonic verbal sparring, full of winks and grins and double entendres.

His fantasies included getting close enough to kiss her tempting lips, massage her jaunty breasts, and bed Miss Gardner proper and often. She represented exactly what he needed to regain the enthusiasm and necessary physiology for the act.

Ruse used his lowest octave, most masculine voice. “Good afternoon, Miss Gardner.”

In her white eyelet afternoon dress, she strutted up to the counter and set the basket between them. “Miss Gardner, is it now? I thought I told you to address me by my familiar name.”

His world tilted. Surely, he would remember such an instruction. “I was unsure if you meant it, Penelope.”

“Not Penelope—Penny, you silly goose.”

Ruse swallowed. “Penny?”

She gave him a coy look, a sweet smile on her pretty, narrow face. “Mother sent me here to obtain a goose for tomorrow’s dinner. Do you have a goose, Ruse?” She giggled as soon as the words left her lips.

He stuck the butcher knife solidly into the block and laughed. “I get it, goose-Ruse. Very clever. As you can see, I’m a gander; but I have four geese-gooses, Penny. Which would you desire?”

Her brown eyes twinkled. She placed the index finger of her white-gloved hand on her dimpled chin. “How does one know, Ruse, which goose is grandest?”

Ruse grinned; he couldn’t help himself. “In order to be eaten, a goose first must be properly plucked.”

She licked her lips and leaned over the counter toward him. “By what measure does one determine when a goose is ready for the plucking?”

Turning quickly, Ruse grabbed a long pole with a hook at the end and lifted the fattest goose from the wire. He plopped the cleanly singed bird on the counter. He poked a blood-tinted finger on the bird’s breast, raising his eyes from the dead goose to her ripe chest. “By the firmness of its breast, of course.”

“So, what do you think, is firm more important than size?” Her most salacious grin displayed perfect ivory teeth. “I’ve always heard the fatter the goose, the sweeter its plucking.”

Stunned and excited by her alluring display of one of Evanston’s most heavenly bodies, he barely choked out, “I’ve never seen sweeter so amply explained before.”

She patted her hair with one delicate hand. “Admit it, Ruse. You’ve never seen a finer goose.”

His heart pounded. “Might I call on you, sweet goose?”

The sound of buzzing flies filled the shop. One of the bugs landed on Penny’s pink cheek, a dark blot quickly swatted away.

“Socially, I mean.” To Ruse, his voice sounded hollow.

The young woman flashed him a coquettish smile. “So, you want to pluck my little goose, eh?”

“Yes,” he said, entirely too quickly. “No. It’s the nature of the beast. I mean, I’d be pleased to court you if you would be agreeable.”

“You, Ruse, pluck my goose?” Penelope Gardner whirled in a circle. She placed her hand over her mouth and giggled—then she giggled louder. Then she laughed—then she laughed louder.

Ruse’s face flushed as the woman giggled, laughed, and danced around the shop.

Finally, she gained control. Penny pointed at him—her eyes now bottomless pits, and her teeth fanglike. She glared and said, “Look at you. Father would have your hide if you placed one bloody claw on a single pinfeather of my precious body. What makes you, the butcher’s boy, think you can court me? I have class.”

She stripped the glove from her left hand and displayed a diamond the size of a cat’s eyeball. With a wicked grin, she met Ruse’s eyes. “I’m engaged to be married on November the tenth.”

His shame turned to anger. He gripped the butcher knife so hard, had it been alive, he would have squeezed blood from its handle. In his mind, he saw himself jump over the counter and cut her haughty throat. Nevertheless, he silently placed the goose on the scales, weighed, and wrapped it—all the time the power of her scrutiny causing his hands to tremble.

Ruse looked up, a forced smile fixed on the murderous mask covering his face. He placed the package in her basket. “There you are, Miss Gardner—a grand goose for a stupid goose.”