The Legend of Anne Southern: First of the Legend Series

By Brenda Hodge and J. Rivers Hodge

The year is 1860. In Evanston, Illinois, a young, unassuming butcher, Ruse Blackburn, wants what every man wants, to earn a decent living and marry a lovely wife. With these goals almost in his grasp, the privileged stomp on his ambitions.

Ruse, rightly accused of murder and tortured, sells his soul and ends up as General William T. Shermans aidecharged with keeping the general drunk enough to do evil but sober enough to conduct war. As Shermans troops pillage Georgia, Ruse sinks deeper and deeper into madness.

In the meantime, beautiful Anne Southern lives a life of lonely luxury with her two young sons at Meridian Plantation. Her husband, Allen, fires the mortar that begins the Civil War and abandons his family to fight for the Confederacy.

Swept with her dependents to Atlanta by the winds of war, Anne must deal with a society in decline and a diminishing food supply. To feed her children, in an act of desperation and desire, she gives dearly to a suitor for ten pounds of jerky.

Evicted from Atlanta, Anne returns to the plantation. There, she encounters Major Ruse Blackburn and his skinning knifea man with a grudge to settle and a proclivity for cutting pretty flesh.

Anne finds herself completely without resources and must make difficult decisions.

A very entertaining, mile-a-minute style, and remarkably vivid characters.

Diana Gabaldon, New York Times bestselling author of the award winning Outlander novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475945980

Brenda Hodge

J. Rivers Hodge is a native Floridian and a graduate of the University of Florida College of Pharmacy. He lives with his wife and writing partner, Brenda, in Jacksonville, Florida. In THE LEGEND OF ANNE SOUTHERN, he has created the definitive novel of life during the American Civil War. He is now hard at work writing the next novel of THE LEGEND series.

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Copyright © 2012 by J. Rivers Hodge with Brenda Hodge

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-4597-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4596-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4598-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012915321

iUniverse rev. date: 10/12/2012

* * *

The Legend of Anne Southern is dedicated to my

beautiful wife, Brenda. Her love, understanding,

encouragement, and assistance allowed these characters

to come to life. Without her devotion to this work, I wouldn’t have written a single word.

* * *

After you’ve read The Legend of Anne Southern, be sure and check out the sequel, The Legend of Joe Edge (available soon) which continues the adventures of these characters.

J. Rivers and Brenda invite your questions and comments at [e-mail] and to visit their website:

www.thelegendofannesouthern.com

Visit J. Rivers Hodge on Facebook.

Contents

Preface

Part One Ruse Blackburn and Anne Southern September 1860 to May 1861

Part Two The Civil War May 1861 to October 1864

Part Three War is Hell October 1864 and November 1864

Part Four The Crossroads Store November 1864 to January 1865

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Preface

THE TELLING OF STORIES is a dying art. The few storytellers of today are cracked glass compared to my granddaddy, James Edward Hodge.

He was a community leader and a popular storyteller in our settlement of Jonesville, Florida. Our favorites were stories about the people who endured hard times during the Civil War. These tales, told to Granddaddy by his father and uncles who fought in the war, fueled my lifelong interest in those events.

Granddaddy was also a lay preacher of the Baptist persuasion, so you know he could tell a tale. He had a way of acting out the roles of each character, using his hands, facial expressions, variations of pitch and tone of voice, to give individuals their unique identity. He didn’t confine his stories to only one actor. Almost all characters participated in telling a tale so the audience had a perspective of how each person experienced the action.

That’s how I’ve written The Legend of Anne Southern—Granddaddy’s way.

However, Granddaddy wouldn’t approve of the content of my story—it’s too, ah, adult for a Baptist preacher. However, times have changed; and although he wouldn’t approve, that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy.

Part One

Ruse Blackburn and Anne Southern

September 1860 to May 1861

Watch out w’en youer gitin’ all you want. Fattenin’ hogs ain’t in luck.

— Joel Chandler Harris. Uncle Remus and His Friends. 1892.1

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.

Ingrid Ingersoll

ABOVE INGERSOLL’S BAKERY, IN her daughter’s bedroom, Ingrid Ingersoll placed a sturdy wooden chair next to the wall and sat. Now back up, dear, she said as she admired Pearl’s underwear. Silk drawers—never bought those for myself.

Due to an unfortunate set of circumstances, Pearl approached her twenty-first birthday in danger of becoming an old maid. Ingrid was determined to remedy the matter and see her daughter properly married. Moreover, she knew that Pearl was her most valuable asset and her ticket out of backbreaking chores—scraping a living off the quieter streets of Evanston.

Ingrid leaned forward and adjusted the whalebone corset snugly clinging to Pearl’s middle. She wrapped one tie around each hand twice and positioned her bare foot on her daughter’s back above Pearl’s rump. Ready?

She pushed with her foot and pulled with her hands, her arms bunched with well-developed muscles from carrying firewood and kneading bread dough. She applied all her might, and Pearl’s waist narrowed considerably. Resembling the sound of a bellows pumping, air rushed from the younger woman’s mouth. Ingrid hissed, Lean forvard, dammit. Ve must get your vaist down to eighteen inches.

Pearl coughed and breathlessly said, Why?

As I’ve explained numerous times, ve’re going to the Ridgeville Bank this afternoon to see the bank president, Mr. Thomas Ridge Sr. His son, Junior, is twenty-six and unmarried. A most unfortunate circumstance for the Ridges—a blessing for us—the son’s betrothed ran avay to Virginia vith a buggy salesman. Ingrid strained and grunted, One … more … inch.

Words leaked from Pearl. Another inch and I won’t be able to breathe.

You got into it last year and the year before that. I have a considerable investment in your costume and vear it, you vill. Ingrid bound the ties. There, how does that feel? Turn around and let me have a look.

Pearl’s face flushed as red as a ripe apple. It’s much smaller than when we bought it two years ago. My bumpies are going to jump out.

Yah, vell, let me try. Ingrid unsuccessfully attempted to push Pearl’s breasts further below the binding. Hmm. It’ll have to do. I cannot help the fact your bosom vants to spill over this corset. Stand up straight at all times. Don’t bend over. Now, slip on your best chemise and fetch the petticoats and dress. Ve don’t have all day.

A young woman of exceptional beauty, Pearl was tall and statuesque, adorned with clear blue eyes and flawless, snow-white skin. Her expensive two-year-old dress perfectly displayed her bountiful figure. The off-shoulder bodice barely hid her well-cleaved chest and narrowed at the bottom, enhancing her once wasp-like waist. From there, the shiny emerald material flowed like a waterfall over voluminous petticoats and ended below her ankles.

As Ingrid folded Pearl’s long curls off her neck and fixed decorative flowers in her honey-blonde hair, she lectured her daughter. Since your papa died fifteen years ago, I’ve risen from bed every morning of every day of every veek, except Sundays, of course, vell before daybreak to provide for us. In the middle of the night, I’ve toted vood from the pile to fire the ovens, mixed flour, milk, sugar, and eggs to bake bread and make cakes. You don’t have my constitution, dear, so you must marry vell.

Pearl bent her head as if contemplating prayer. I hope Junior Ridge isn’t at all like that sewing machine salesman you tried to marry me to last year. The man constantly broke wind at the dining table and rubbed up against my bumpies at every opportunity. An animal—distressing, most persistent, and, ah, difficult to get away from when we were alone.

Ingrid fluffed a flower. Yah, vell, men are strange creatures, dear. It’s vell-known they all have disgusting habits. Your papa farted at the most inopportune times and snored so loud he shook the building. Against the participation of men, civilization has advanced to get to the modern age. Had men their vay, I don’t know vhere ve vould be.

Pearl squirmed. Ouch.

But, I do know you vill have to tolerate a man or end up killing yourself in this bakery, doing backbreaking vork for meager returns. Junior is our best bet. I’m putting all our resources into this venture.

And I hope he’s not like that boat captain you sponsored year before last—already married with three children.

Ve all make mistakes, dear. Had your papa listened to me vhen ve arrived from Sveden years ago, ve’d be sitting pretty now. I suggested a building on Main Street, in the middle of the commercial district. But, no, Olaf had to go cheap, so ve ended up here on Church Street vith practically no foot traffic. That’s vhy ve have to get by selling commodity-priced bread to restaurants and my reputation of decorating spectacular vedding cakes for society brides.

Why can’t I marry Harry Horne? He’s a man experienced in the art—

That used-buggy salesman? Harry Horne vill never marry. Just because you’ve danced the devil’s dance a time or two vith a notorious seducer isn’t reason to be vulgar, dear. Best let demons lie. Ve must get you married before your condition begins to show.

Have you ever actually seen Junior?

Of course. Ingrid smiled. He vorks as a teller at his father’s bank. He’s rich and unmarried, polite, and a tiny-bit shy. Unlike Tom Sr., Junior hasn’t quite reached his full potential. However, once he gets a look at you in this dress—vell, he’ll be svept avay. I can see the church now—full of rich people, red rose petals being thrown at your feet as you stroll down the aisle.

Why would any sane woman give up Junior for a buggy salesman?

She must be a capricious and stupid girl, dear.

* * *

Later that day, Ingrid and Pearl waited in the mahogany-lined lobby of the Ridgeville Bank for Thomas Ridge Sr. to invite them into his office.

Ingrid enjoyed talking to the bank’s president. She loved the gentlemanly way Tom treated her and how he smiled when he looked at her. However, today was not about her; today was her daughter’s day. Ingrid’s intent was to broker a wedding, and she had brought her part of the bargain.

The prospect of marriage for Thomas Ridge Jr. seemed as dim as Pearl’s. Junior had grown up puny with a pimple-scarred face, scraggly hair, and a wild, roving eye that made Ingrid uncomfortable. Surprisingly, the boy was not at his station.

Due to her condition and the restricting corset, Pearl’s face shown a pale, pinkish tint. She touched her mother’s arm. I can’t get any air, and my bumpies are going to burst out.

Yah, vell, be patient, dear.

A young man dressed in a business suit approached. He touched his top hat and made a slight bow. Mrs. Ingersoll, please follow me. Mr. Ridge will see you now.

Ingrid took Pearl’s arm, because the girl could wander on occasion, and followed the man down the hall. He opened an ornately carved wooden door, bowed, and gestured for them to enter.

Tom Ridge came around the desk and greeted Ingrid as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, when, in fact, they had met in this very office one week ago today. Come in, come in. Welcome, Mrs. Ingersoll, and you too, young lady. He took Ingrid’s arm and led the women to the two chairs sitting in front of his oversized desk. Please have a seat. It’s so good to see you again.

The sight of the president of the Ridgeville Bank always buttered Ingrid’s bread. The man was tall and handsome, with a full head of wavy, chestnut-brown hair, and the most charming pencil-thin mustache graced his rugged face. He added, I was going to see you.

His words intensified Ingrid’s itch. She promptly sat, crossed her legs, and started a slow, lazy swing back and forth with her foot. Yah, vell, Mr. Ridge, vhy vould someone as important as you come for me?

The man returned to his side of the desk, adjusted himself, and sat. He picked up a large black ink pen, pressed the end on the top of the desk as his fingers slid to the bottom, then he twirled it around and repeated the action. Ingrid, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Tom?

She presented her best smile. Vell, Tom. How have you been?

He grinned, his special grin, nearly a sneer, and appraised Ingrid in the most libidinous manner. I’ve been busy, but happy. How about you, Ingrid, and your lovely daughter?

His look set Ingrid’s foot in a quicker rhythm. Oh, Pearl and I vere valking about town, shopping. She paused her foot and looked at her daughter. Say hello to Mr. Ridge, dear.

Pearl smiled.

The moment of truth—the girl gets confused at times. In Ingrid’s mind, birds sang when her daughter said, Hello, Mr. Ridge.

Quick to take the initiative, Ingrid didn’t hesitate. The foot set a furious pace. And how is your fine son, Junior? Pearl vas telling me she’s disappointed he’s not here to join us.

Tom Ridge worked the pen repeatedly, causing a rhythmic thump, thump, thump, on the desktop. At this minute, Junior is at the tailor’s. He’s having a suit fitted, and that’s why I wanted to see you.

Ecstasy! Ingrid shuddered. If Junior comes courting, she paused and turned to her beautiful daughter, Pearl vill velcome him vith open arms. Von’t you, dear?

Pearl blinked. Why?

Ingrid tried not to growl at Pearl. Vhy, to entertain Mr. Ridge’s son. Surely, you remember Junior. Ve talked about him only minutes ago.

The banker laid the pen flat and rolled it back and forth with his palm as one might roll a cigar. His brow wrinkled, and he cleared his throat. I need to order a wedding cake and some petit fours. You see, Mrs. Ridge thinks we should buy our bakery goods from Delaney’s, because that’s what we’ve always done. However, for the life of me, I cannot convince Mr. Delaney to do his banking with me. So naturally, Ingrid, I thought of you.

With both hands, Ingrid gripped the edge of the desk to steady herself. Ve’ll have the most spectacular vedding in Evanston’s history.

Tom sneered. We certainly will. Unfortunately, we don’t have much time. I’ve decided Junior will be married on November the tenth. Wait until you meet the new bride—quite a catch for my boy. From Evanston’s finest family, Penelope Gardner is a lovely young lady.

Ingrid’s world began a slow spin, darkness closed in, and she thought she might faint. She took a deep breath. Penelope Gardner?

* * *

As they exited the bank, Ingrid allowed Pearl to lead for a change. The girl turned left, away from Church Street, Ingersoll’s Bakery, and their home. Ingrid didn’t care. She needed to sort things out, come up with a plan, and find a match for her daughter.

Dammit! Betrayed by Tom Ridge. Only last veek, he agreed to give Pearl fair consideration as his son’s bride. I’ll never make eyes vith the man again. And his stupid boy, Junior—Pearl is too much of a voman for the runt anyvay. And Penelope Gardner, indeed—just vho the hell does she think she is?

I want some meat, Pearl said.

If she gains one more pound, she’ll be fatter than a pig and I von’t be able to vrestle her into that dress. If I don’t get her married, it’ll be life vithout meat—meals of stale bread vith thin chicken broth. Then vhat? A fat Svede vith a fatherless child? Impossible!

They walked several blocks in silence before Pearl said, In here.

The sign on the modest redbrick building read: Blackburn’s Butcher Shop. Ingrid had never noticed the place before. Let’s go home, dear, and have a nice bowl of chicken stew.

Pearl spoke over her shoulder as she pushed the door open. No. The chicken stew tastes like saltwater. I want a big piece of red meat.

Ingrid followed, and sure enough, there he stood, a tall man with dark features wrapped in a blood-smeared apron. The metallic smell of blood and fresh-cut meat sent soft tingles like rising yeast running up Ingrid’s back. Is it possible that Pearl has vandered into the den of a potential husband?

As they approached the counter, the handsome devil looked up from the liver he was slicing and said, How may I help you today?

Ingrid noted that when he focused on Pearl, his eyes brightened, he took a deep breath, and stood ramrod straight. And vho might you be, young man? she blurted.

Ruse, Ruse Blackburn. This is my family’s shop.

Pearl stood there, looking up at the choice meats on display, ignoring a would-be suitor.

I’m Ingrid Ingersoll, she said wistfully, the thought of embracing this beautiful demon herself ran through her mind. She poked Pearl in the ribs with her elbow. This is my daughter, Pearl.

What? Pearl said.

Ruse’s eyes never left Pearl’s ripe figure. He pointed a bloodstained finger at the meat on the block. We have slices of beef liver on sale, eleven cents a pound.

Ingrid addressed Pearl. Liver, dear?

Pearl’s gaze appeared to find the butcher and lit up. Meat, Mr., ah,—

Blackburn, but you may call me Ruse.

Ingrid jumped in. And how is your vife these days, Ruse?

He turned his attention to her. Wife? You must be mistaking me for someone else, Mrs. Ingersoll. I’m not married.

Vhat a coincidence. My Pearl is also unmarried.

Admiration leaped from the man’s mouth. Your daughter is a lovely lady.

Clever devil and smooth-tongued, this one. And you say you own this shop?

Ruse wiped his hands on the apron, leaving another long bloody stain. He picked up a flexible hunk of beef and placed it on the counter. His gaze met Ingrid’s eyes. I’ve been saving up. I’ll soon have my own shop on the other side of town. Perhaps your daughter will visit me there.

Vhat kind of meat is that?

Ruse cut a wicked grin at her. Sirloin—a piece of beef knighted by King Henry VIII of England because of its unsurpassed excellence of taste and texture. But, it’s the nature of the beast, expensive …

Another pivotal moment. Vhy did everything have to be so critical—come so fast? My toe is already in the vater, might as vell make a splash. I’ll take it. Yah, vell, and Pearl is available for courting. Ingrid placed a white calling card with black writing on the counter.

Ruse swept the paper up and pressed his bloody thumbprint across the letters on the face of the card. He studied the writing. I see.

Chapter 2

Anne Southern

THE SCREECH OF AN egret floating high above the tannin-stained waters of the Oconee River woke Anne Southern from slumber. She lounged nude on a blanket cushioned by a bed of soft grass covering a high bank above the confluence of the waters of Meridian Creek and the lazy brown river. These waterways formed two boundaries of Meridian Plantation—five thousand acres in southeast Georgia and the cornerstone of Anne and Allen Southern’s world.

She felt safe in her nakedness and as much a part of the south as the red clay of Georgia. The entrance to her secret garden was a winding path barely visible from the road. A rough expanse of trees and scrubs, augmented by a curtain of green vines, protected her from the eyes of anyone traveling the lane running parallel to the water.

Anne twisted her diamond wedding ring on her finger. She’d have to hurry to be back at home when Young Sam finished his studies and Little Danny woke from his nap. Aunt Bessie, Anne’s Negro servant, always said a mother’s place was to be with her children.

She slipped a short shift over her raven-black curls, buttoned her white blouse, hitched up her riding dress, and pulled on her leather boots. She walked to the seldom-used road, a pair of wagon ruts in sticky clay. She whistled for Lady, and the large appaloosa mare trotted to her. Anne enjoyed a lively mount, and her horse appeared spirited, having spent the afternoon grazing on the sweet grass between the river and the cotton fields.

Anne folded her paper book, The Adventures of January Snow and the Savages of the Aztec Empire, into a red silk shawl she kept for that purpose and concealed it in the saddlebags beneath the blanket. Her nimble-fingered fun would come again another day.

Mounted, she slapped Lady’s flank with her riding crop, and the horse took off in a steady canter. She rode between the trees bordering Plantation Creek and endless rows of cotton plants, the leaves turning brown with the season, decorated here and there with unpicked puffs of white, stringing from the pods and resembling thick spider webs.

Anne passed the Edge home and waved at Maggie who was hanging laundry. For the next two miles, she gave Lady free rein. The horse stretched out, galloping like a colt in springtime.

She turned off the road, onto the back lane leading to the plantation house. Lady slowed to a trot as they passed the scores of weather-beaten buildings that served as slave quarters. Only a few old black women sat in the sun. A couple of them waved at her as the others minded their chores: washing clothes, making soap, plucking chickens—

Chickens! Anne smiled. Papa spoiled me. I dressed like a boy, and he took me to cockfights in Charleston. I miss him so.

She dismounted in front of the plantation’s huge stables and surrendered Lady’s reins to a Negro boy. Before he led the horse away, she removed the blanket and the red shawl containing her January Snow adventure book from the saddlebags.

A long footpath led to the three-story house. Halfway up the walk, Red Garrett, the lanky operations manager of Meridian Plantation, leaned his back against an oak tree. With his right knee bent and the sole of his boot resting on the tree trunk, he halfheartedly flicked a dangerous black whip at a row of pinecones—targets he’d placed on the other side of the path.

Anne despised the man. He often leered at her and sometimes made crude remarks. Allen wouldn’t fire Red, arguing that he’d continue to try to hire Buck Edge. However, any other man he might find to manage five hundred slaves would have the same uncivilized attributes as Red.

Ignore him, all slave masters are that crude, Allen said every time she complained. Red’s a mean son of a bitch, but he’s our son of a bitch. If he gives you any real problems, tell Toby. I’ve warned both of them; if Red strikes another Negro without my permission or bothers you in any way—well, Toby knows what to do.

She didn’t surrender the riding crop to the stable boy. Instead, she tucked it under her arm, took the shawl-wrapped book in one hand, the blanket in the other, steeled herself, and walked up the path.

With the handle firm in his hand, Red’s whip lay across the way like a long poisonous snake. As she approached, the man tipped his black hat and smiled, showing cracked, tobacco-stained teeth. Afternoon, Miz Southern. Sure is hot for ah September day, ain’t it?

Anne saw no way to avoid Red, so she forced herself to be civil. Good afternoon, Red.

A blue jay lit on a limb directly over the path, several feet beyond where Red lounged. The bird squawked. Red glanced at the jay. Then he eyed Anne up and down, leering like an uncivilized animal. But you’s dressed for da weather, ain’t you? Can’t say as I ever seen ah outfit like yours. Toby’s been asking, worried ’bout you. Say, where da you go, disappearing for hours?

Anne felt violated, her face flushed hot. It’s none of your damned business where I go or what I do.

As if she’d slapped him, his face changed from its natural rusty color to scarlet. You gotta mouth on you ain’t fittin’ for no woman.

The jay squawked again.

Red was spoiling for a fight. She’d not give him the satisfaction. Now, move your whip and let me pass.

Sure. The jay squawked. Red studied the bird. Otherwise, he didn’t twitch a muscle. Did I hear, please?

Anne bit her tongue and squeezed out, Please.

He stepped on the path in front of her; too close for comfort, Anne jumped back two steps.

With the singular fluid motion of a skilled athlete, Red coiled the whip up from the path, past his back, and over his right shoulder. He whipped it forward, up and around, zinging the tip past Anne’s head, sounding as ominous as a viper strike. Before she could shout a warning, he snapped the bird off the limb.

The destroyed blue jay’s body tumbled several yards away. A shower of blue and grey feathers gently descended in the still afternoon air and scattered around the path.

Livid, Anne shouted, What the hell do you think you’re doing?

Red grinned, obviously pleased with himself. Why, my job. Being ah gentleman, dat’s what. Protectin’ da mistress of da house. See now, you ain’t gotta worry ’bout bird shit gettin’ all in your pretty hair.

* * *

Anne entered Meridian Plantation house by the back door. Aunt Bessie blocked the way. The enormous woman, her kinky, black hair covered by a red bandana, glared at Anne. She stood with her hands on her wide hips. Where you been, honey chile? Master Garrett told Toby you was off to the preacher’s house. Toby took after you on a mule.

I don’t need this. After her encounter with Garrett, Anne felt soiled and wanted a bath. Why in the world would I go to Reverend Vineheart’s house when Mary Vineheart is here in the study teaching Young Sam to read?

Aunt Bessie softened. I guess Toby didn’t think ’bout that. You want me to take that blanket and shawl, have them washed?

The blanket, yes. I’ll keep the shawl.

What you gots in that shawl?

Never mind. Anne slipped by the woman who’d been her constant companion, confidant, servant, and best friend all of her life. Is there hot water for a bath? Garrett insulted me, and I need to cleanse myself.

You know I have the kitchen keep hot water for you all day. Don’t seem right, woman has to bathe as much as you do. You want me to send May Belle to fetch it and fix your bath?

Yes, I’ll be in my room.

Aunt Bessie followed Anne up the stairs. The woman used a deeper tone for serious matters. Miss Anne.

Yes?

May Belle say she ain’t gonna be able to nurse Little Danny much longer. The baby’s two years old and he gots teeth—he gnawing on her.

Questions concerning her children perplexed Anne. If May Belle’s baby had lived, he’d be the same age as Little Danny. Climbing the stairs, she asked over her shoulder, What’s the right thing to do?

Take him off the teat. When he hungry, feed him rice and milk. Time that boy learned to eat real food.

That’s correct. Anne paused at her bedroom door. How’s Mother?

Oh, she the same, honey chile. She lays in the bed, moans, and groans, and then she coughs a bit. I give her Kaplan’s Tonic and she calm right down.

Anne entered her bedroom, and, although she didn’t intend to be unmannerly, she shut Aunt Bessie outside. She walked to a full-length mirror on the side wall and admired herself, despite the sweat clinging to her body and the nasty thoughts of Red Garrett.

She touched a spot on a board next to the mirror. The glass panel swung away from the wall, revealing a bookcase where she kept her January Snow books. Inside the walls, a hidden passage and descending stairs led to a similar mirror in her bathing room on the ground floor. The passage didn’t stop there, a grotto lay another twenty steps down. From the grotto, a cave led to a concealed exit in the bank of Plantation Creek, three hundred yards behind the house.

This secret escape route, Allen explained when he first showed her the house, was a safety precaution should the slaves revolt or the plantation house come under siege. Anne had been skeptical of the passageway until John Brown’s raid on Harpers Ferry a year ago.

She touched her wedding ring. Clever, and only Allen and I know about it.

* * *

Anne lolled in the tepid water of the half-filled marble bathtub. She picked up the crystal bell to ring for another bucket of hot water. The door opened. Her heart leaped. No one was allowed to come into the room without invitation while she bathed, except—

As quick as a mermaid leaping above the surface of the ocean, she stood. Allen! It’s you.

Her husband appeared, a tall man, well over six feet, with dark, curly hair and fog-grey eyes. Even with a day-old beard on his handsome face, Anne admired his granite-hard chin, high cheekbones, and patrician-like nose.

He draped the saddlebags over the corner chair and placed his hat on the seat. Allen flashed a wicked grin, signaling a night of lovemaking.

With his helping hand, Anne stepped out of the tub and into his arms. She loved to run her hands through the mat of black hair hiding under his white shirt. As they kissed, she unbuttoned his waistcoat and stripped the garment from his body. She dropped it on the wet marble floor and immediately untied his string tie.

His lips stayed on hers, and his strong hands roamed her body. Anticipation built inside Anne like water behind a dam. With his hard root pressing against her, the palm of his right hand massaged the extra-sensitive dual nipples of her left breast.

Anne pressed against him, wetting his clothes. She whispered, Get undressed.

He stepped back and examined her. Anne Southern, you’re the most enchanting woman in the world.

Yes, she said as she unbuckled his belt, and I love only you.

"The devil you say, ma petite Cheri. Let’s go up to the bedroom."

No. Let’s make love here in the tub, as we did that night in New Orleans during our honeymoon.

Allen backed to the chair and sat on his hat. Damn!

Here. Anne took the hat and punched out the crown. She tossed it aside and reached for the saddlebags, causing Allen’s nose to settle between her breasts. He took the twin nipples into his mouth and suckled.

She whispered, What’s in the saddlebags? Though wound as tight as an undersized corset, she leaned into his embrace far enough to get her hands around him. Her deft fingers quickly opened one side of the saddlebags. She felt inside. Surprised, she gently laughed, a sound as delightful as a crystal bell. Oh, Allen. Gold bars! You’re the best husband a woman could have.

He moved her to arm’s length and studied her with smoldering eyes. You love gold more than you love me.

That’s not true. She bent over and shucked off one of his boots. I’ll show you.

He laughed and removed the other boot. I’ve seen everything. What more could you possibly show me?

She attacked his shirt, then his trousers. With a throaty purr, she said, I read a new January Snow adventure today, and I think I’ve discovered a new way.

So, you’ve been spending time with comely January, eh?

Naked, they embraced in a dance of love known only by couples familiar with one another. He was ten years older than Anne. She marveled at his physique: hard muscles everywhere, broad shoulders, a trim waist, long legs, a tight butt, and not a single blemish marred his glorious body.

His lips drew fire from her nipples. She gripped his erection, as proud as a champion stallion’s and as hard as iron. Her toes curled; tonight promised to be luscious and pleasurable.

Anne led her husband to the tub.

* * *

Lightning struck across the creek, and the following thunder woke Anne from sleep. Outside, a heavy rain poured down. A noisome odor, perhaps a faraway skunk or a dead rat in the wall, permeated the air. Prickly feet of imaginative insects ran up and down her legs and arms.

Sated after two nights of lovemaking and lying in sweat-soaked sheets, Anne snuggled closer to her husband’s back. She loved the feel of the man; his body held the energy of a crazed tiger and possessed muscles as hard as gold bars. The sound of his snoring, not loud but steady, befit his personality.

Another flash, closer this time, and the subsequent thunder shook the house.

Allen mumbled, What’s going on?

Shh, she said. Go back to sleep.

She considered herself the luckiest of wives. After all, I almost married, ah, what’s his name, the Boone boy, tragically murdered right before our nuptials. As usual, Papa saved the day—he proposed marriage to Allen.

I resisted because Allen had a reputation as a gambler and seducer of women. As the wife of such a notorious man, I’d never fulfill my dreams of rising to the pinnacle of Charleston’s society.

Two strikes—flashes of monsters on the ceiling. The house shook, resembling a leaf in a brisk breeze.

Then Papa confessed. He’d gambled away the family fortune. Marrying Allen Southern solved all our problems. I took a vow with Allen, and I haven’t looked back.

A triple lightning strike, with flashes so real they appeared to be inside the room—the thunder deafening. The shadows of horrific creatures crawled across the wall. Anne shook Allen’s shoulder.

Her husband sat up, his hairy chest suspended above the covers. We have to go downstairs. Someone is here.

Puzzled and clinging to him, Anne said, Who’s here?

Allen climbed out of bed and reached for his trousers. Put on a robe. I’m sure we have company.

What? Who, at this time of night? In this kind of weather?

As Allen dressed, Anne cinched a white silk robe, decorated with hand-sized scarlet dragons, around her waist. She wondered who would visit after midnight.

Holding Anne’s hand, her husband skipped down the stairs and into the parlor. Allen shouted, My God, Pop!

Anne blinked several times, her view of the room hampered by a thin, misty smoke. A stench, not unlike that of burnt sulfur, irritated her nose. She regained her focus and realized a man stood before a roaring fire in the fireplace.

He was tall and as thin as a reed. Similar to a cannon’s fuse, a long brown cheroot with a red-hot tip stuck out of his full black beard. He wore a stovepipe hat, black boots up to his knees, and an open white shirt exposed his sunburned chest. A pistol hung on one side of his thick leather belt and a sword hung from the other. He rolled the cheroot to the side of his mouth, grinned, and displayed a full set of sharp white teeth.

The man hugged Allen to his body. My sin.

Pop. My God, where have you been?

The man growled around the cheroot as much as spoke. "In Ireland, messing with potatoes, caused a fine famine. Then, down to Mexico, stirred up a little war. Spent a bit of time in Germany, helped a fellow named Marx write the Communist Manifesto. Went to France for a revolution, made heads roll. Early ’50s, played the younger brother of Jesus in South China. Har! Yar shoulda seen the mess. Twenty million souls sent to the Heavenly Kingdom of Great Peace, one of my best efforts, if I say so myself."

The devil you say? Pop, you’ve been busy.

Pop danced a quick six-step jig and sang, I say, I say, I say.

Anne noted that not a single bolt of lightning had struck, inside or outside, since Allen told her to get dressed. She flushed and backed away.

To come here, left Romania, building what I call an oil refinery there. Gonna help a devil invent the internal combustion engine soon, new technology, yar know. Global warming next, long-term project—yar waits and sees the trouble that causes.

Allen said, I can’t imagine—

More work to do. War’s a coming. Need yar help.

Anne choked out. War?

He nodded at Anne and danced his jig. I say, I say, I say. So, this be the field where yar planted the seed. Fertile ground—marked long ago. Samuel be the fruit of her labors?

As a matter of fact, yes. Allen appeared to remember his manners and swept his hand toward her. I’m sorry, Pop. Meet my wife, Anne.

Hello, daughter. The man removed his hat and bowed, exposing a completely bald, sunburned head.

Anne, this is my father, Pop.

Stunned, as all the blood ran from her head, she used measured words and said to Allen, You … don’t … have … a father.

Her husband placed his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. I’m afraid I haven’t been exactly honest with you. This is my father, Jack Burns. He goes by Pop.

A sickening dizziness hit Anne. Familiar with the name that for years had struck fear into Charleston residents, incredulously she muttered, Lighthouse Jack Burns?

Allen grinned proudly. Yes, Lighthouse Jack Burns, the last of the old-time pirates.

* * *

Anne woke to the music of a singing mockingbird outside her bedroom window. Naked, she sat up and stretched, loosening tight muscles in her back. She slipped out of bed and into her robe, walked to the window, and watched the bird flutter away.

Memories of the exploits of Lighthouse Jack Burns flashed as bright as day. He and his minions had been notorious for capturing lighthouses along the Atlantic shores and building fires well up from the coast.

Ship captains, dependent on the lighthouses to keep their vessels safe, sailed too close to rocky shoals. When the reefs ripped the bottoms out of the ships, Lighthouse Jack and his men attacked the floundering craft, killed the officers and crew, and sacked the booty.

The last she’d heard of her infamous father-in-law was that he’d been captured by the British navy and taken to London to be hung. The Wanted Dead or Alive posters, offering a one thousand dollar reward, had disappeared years ago.

Are my children safe? What should I do? Talk to Allen.

The bedroom door cracked open and broke her memories. Aunt Bessie’s head poked in. There you be, honey chile. The woman passed through the door, closed it behind her, and marched into the room. Young Sam’s already finished his breakfast. Little Danny’s refusing to eat his milk and rice. The day’s half over and you ain’t yet dressed.

Anne grumbled, Good morning to you.

Aunt Bessie continued as if she hadn’t heard. Sleeping as much as your mama. Do you hafta use the chamber pot?

No. I’m hungry.

The large woman busied herself, laying out her mistress’s riding outfit. You’re late for breakfast, but I had May Belle save you some cornbread and clabber milk.

You know I hate clabber—

Mr. Southern told me to tell you that he’ll be gone ’til the president’s been elected. Lord God, I hope Mr. Lincoln wins.

Pray tell, why is that?

Aunt Bessie gave Anne a puzzled look. Somebody gots to win, might as well be Mr. Lincoln. Now, we gets you dressed, and you come down to the dining room. May Belle’ll serve you, and you can feed Little Danny. Maybe his mama can get that boy off May Belle’s teat.

Anne touched her wedding ring. And where has my husband gone?

Lord knows, honey chile. Lord knows.

* * *

An oval mahogany table, covered with a brilliant-white tablecloth, dominated the dining room. A portrait of Anne’s mother and father hung above a stone fireplace at one end. Polished burl oak decorated the wall below the chair rail. Yellow paint created a soft atmosphere. Purple curtains dressed the windows, and a gold chandelier suspended from the white plaster ceiling.

With her breakfast of cold cornbread and clabber milk sitting before her, Anne held a spoonful of warm milk and rice in front of Little Danny’s mouth. Her fair-haired, two-year-old son pouted, beseeched her with his blue eyes, and said, No, Mama.

Try it, baby. I mixed sugar with it. It’s good.

His right cheek marked by a cross-shaped purple hemangioma, six-year-old Young Sam sat on the other side of the table. The older boy said, I ate all my breakfast.

Little Danny resembled the cherubs in Reuben’s painting, The Feast of Venus. On occasion, a stubborn streak came out when he spoke. Want May Belle.

She can’t feed you anymore, baby. May Belle is, ah, dry.

Why?

Young Sam twirled a strand of his straw-colored hair with a finger. I was really young when I started eating milk and rice, wasn’t I, Mama?

Yes, dear, Anne said. You ate solids before your first birthday, and you were fully weaned by eighteen months. I’m very proud of you.

Danny pushed the spoon away. Want May Belle.

I’ll eat it, Mama, Young Sam said. I like milk and rice.

Anne extended the spoon across the table. Young Sam took the whole measure and smacked his lips. Mmm, good. You should try it, Danny.

Little Danny’s attention wandered around the room. Finally, his gaze settled on his mother. I try.

Anne quickly shoved a spoonful into his open mouth. See, tasty. Do you want more?

Yes, ma’am.

She fed him a second spoonful, encouraging him with her smile. Another bite, and she cooed, That’s my baby. He ate another and another, until the bowl was empty.

See, Danny, Young Sam said. Milk and rice is much better than May Belle.

Stubbornly, the younger boy crossed his arms and said, No.

Aunt Bessie entered from the hall. Miss Anne, your mama’s getting agitated again.

Anne glanced wistfully at her cold breakfast. I’ll be right there.

You knows I ain’t able to do nothing with her when she gets mad.

Taking her baby under his arms, she hoisted Little Danny. What are the children doing today?

Mrs. Vineheart’s coming to teach Sammy this afternoon. Charlie gonna take Danny fishing down to the river.

Although Charlie was Aunt Bessie’s man, Anne considered him half-slow and half-lazy, with a bit of foolishness for flavor. No, Charlie’s not responsible enough to look after a two-year-old.

Charlie more responsible than you gives him credit. I’ll tell him Danny can help feed the chickens and gather eggs.

Anne smoothed Little Danny’s long hair. She loved how his blonde tresses flowed around his face to his neck, where they turned up, as if God had framed his innocence. She kissed him on the cheek. I love you.

Little Danny squirmed out of Anne’s grip. Love you, Mama.

Young Sam said, I love you, Mama.

Anne hadn’t noticed Young Sam come around the table to stand at her side. She bent and kissed his cheek. Of her two children, the elder was more thoughtful and less playful. Young Sam threw his arms around his mother and said, Don’t make me go to school. I want to play.

Anne knelt and looked directly into his eyes. The spot on his face appeared inflamed, redder than before. School is part of growing up. To be a man, you must complete your education. You’ll thank me one day.

Young Sam shook his head. Charlie’s a man, and he doesn’t have an education.

You wrong ’bout that, honey chile. Aunt Bessie’s voice came from behind Anne. Charlie gots himself a lifetime of education. Now, you come on with me. Mrs. Vineheart is gonna be here soon, and your mama’s gots to go see to her mama.

As Aunt Bessie herded the children from the room, Anne took one bite of cold cornbread. She loved her boys with all her heart, but they seemed to have their own lives. Little Danny usually spent the day with May Belle or Charlie, and Young Sam studied with Mrs. Vineheart. Anne sighed. Rearing children takes more effort than I expected.

Aunt Bessie stuck her head back into the dining room. Miss Anne.

I know—Mother.

She walked down the hall, passing the office of the plantation’s accountant. A mother must be sure to do the right things, teach her children the values they’ll need in today’s complicated society. I don’t remember my childhood being so difficult. Papa was always there, and his support proved invaluable.

* * *

Her mother’s hacking cough rattled inside the bedroom. Anne tapped on the door and entered the dim room, taking care to close the door behind her.

Mrs. Turnbull couldn’t navigate the stairs, so the plantation’s carpenter had converted the downstairs sewing room that Anne never used into a bedroom. However, her mother seldom showed her face outside the room, preferring to lie in bed, attended to by the house staff.

In Charleston, when she was pregnant with Anne, Katherine Turnbull developed a nervous cough. After a thorough examination, her doctor brilliantly diagnosed chronic cough syndrome. He prescribed a new medicine marketed as Kaplan’s Tonic—Sure to cure what ails you.

Flavored with sweet cherries, Kaplan’s Tonic contained a wicked blend of opium alkaloids, an extract of hallucinogenic Mexican mushrooms, and forty-percent alcohol. The more tonic Mrs. Turnbull drank the more she slept, and when she woke up nothing could satisfy her except another dose.

During the past couple of decades, Katherine Turnbull and her daughter had evolved in opposite directions. As Anne tiptoed into adolescence, her mother’s physique deteriorated. Ten years ago, except for the tiny cracks of age lines, mother and daughter had resembled twin sisters. Now, Anne bore the once fine feminine figure of her mother, while Katherine had withered and so shrunk into herself that one wouldn’t recognize them as being kin—much less mother and child.

Her mother’s wasted look distressed Anne. She moved to the side of the bed, where the woman lay coughing into a kerchief. Mother, are you all right?

Mrs. Turnbull removed the cloth from her thin grey lips. A mop of white hair surrounded the woman’s hollow-cheeked face, her unfocused eyes wandered. Dammit, daughter, Bessie refused to give me my medicine.

It’s not yet time for your medicine.

Mrs. Turnbull coughed. Time? What the hell does that Negro know about time?

She knows when it’s time for your medicine. Anne puffed up the bed pillows.

It’s time when I say it’s time. Mrs. Turnbull executed a long coughing spell. You’re one hell of a daughter. Jackson gave you everything. I had to put up with all those, ah, what did you call them, living in my house?

Tutors, Mother.

Not another debutante in Charleston studied mathematics and classical arts. Katherine’s eyes turned dreamy. And what did that handsome Frenchman teach?

Remembering her first lover, Anne gave a throaty laugh. Literature, philosophy, and how to play the violin. Jacques was my favorite teacher.

He certainly knew how to play. The man could sing like a bird when he wanted something. Mrs. Turnbull coughed a couple of times.

Mother, please!

Now, am I going to get my medicine, or are you going to continue to be a stingy daughter?

Anne sighed. She stood on a footstool and pulled a gold and purple sash, purposely placed out of her mother’s reach, which rang a bell in the kitchen. Bessie would bring the tonic shortly. I’ve called for your medicine, Mother.

Where is Jackson? She coughed.

Anne had long since given up trying to explain her father’s death. Papa’s in Washington, Mother. The Senate is in session.

Mrs. Turnbull let loose another series of hacking coughs. The swine is screwing that Wilson woman from Virginia again, isn’t he? And you and Bessie are providing cover for the son of a bitch.

That’s not true, and you know it. Anne carefully worded her response. Her father’s past association with the widow, Isadora Wilson, in Washington required a certain measure of discretion. Papa wouldn’t stoop so low as to, ah, pay attention to a Virginia Wilson.

When Mrs. Turnbull finished coughing, she said, Why can’t I return to Charleston? I want to go see Peter Goodman out at his plantation. That man is a real gentleman. He has a blissful orchard, and by God, he knows how to pluck a peach.

Are you sure, Mother? I understand Kaplan’s Tonic is banned in South Carolina. You’d have to do without your medicine.

Lies! Mrs. Turnbull coughed. All of it, lies. And, that man you’ve married? Well, he’s a devil. I’ve been married to Jackson for over thirty years, and by God, I know a devil when I see one.

Three taps on the door. Anne opened it. Without a word, Aunt Bessie handed her a quart bottle of Kaplan’s Tonic and a shot glass. She took the medicine to her mother’s bedside. The woman’s cough abated once the medicine appeared.

Anne anticipated her mother’s crooked, skinny fingers making a swipe for the bottle. When the attack came, she skillfully avoided letting the woman get a grip. She unscrewed the cap and tilted the bottle over the shot