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Chapter Text

The July sun hung low over the horizon, painting the skies above Georgia in strokes of orange, pink, and gold. The air was thick with the scent of magnolia and warm earth, heavy enough that every breath felt like inhaling the day itself. Lucy Chen pressed her palm against the smooth white banister of the plantation’s wide porch, staring out across the fields where cotton plants grew in uneven rows. Dust rose in lazy swirls from the long path leading to the main house, and the faint hum of cicadas buzzed in the heavy air.

At nineteen, Lucy was considered long past the prime age for a respectable match. That was what her mother reminded her each morning over tea—an endless stream of suitors, each more eager to impress with titles or family names that had little meaning in a post-war world. Gentlemen boasting fortunes diminished by the war, families clinging to names now mostly remembered in whispers—none of them stirred Lucy’s interest, none of them set her heart racing. She had learned early that to a young woman, her value was measured by obedience, beauty, and a proper marriage. She had no taste for such a life.

Lucy preferred quiet moments—her books, the hush of twilight, the wind threading through tall grass. She wanted more than the narrow expectations her family set before her. But "more" was not something women like her were encouraged to pursue.

That morning, her father had mentioned a new hire—a man to oversee the fields and ensure the work of rebuilding the plantation proceeded smoothly. The estate had suffered under the Civil War: machinery left rusting, the soil overworked, laborers scarce, and debts looming over the house like dark clouds. Lucy had not thought much of it until she caught sight of him that afternoon.

A lone figure appeared at the edge of the fields on horseback. He was tall, shoulders broad and taut beneath the sleeves of a sun-darkened shirt. Even from a distance, she noticed the precision in the way he moved, the calm authority in his posture. His hat shaded his eyes from the afternoon sun, and the horse beneath him was steady, obedient, as if it, too, recognized his command.

Timothy Bradford. That was the name her father had offered, and though it explained nothing, it carried weight nonetheless. War veteran, twenty-six years old, brought to restore the estate’s faltering operations. Lucy had heard the stories of men like him: soldiers hardened by loss and violence, their spirits carved by battles she could barely imagine.

Her mother, ever cautious, had muttered, “Soldiers carry shadows with them. What sort of man is that to bring into our home?”
Her father, pragmatic as always, had answered simply: “We need strength. The land won’t manage itself.”

Lucy’s gaze lingered on the man as he dismounted, boots crunching against the gravel path. He spoke quietly with her father, low-toned and deliberate, with none of the flourish or flattery the men of her social circle typically employed. When he lifted his head, his gaze swept across the porch, catching her half-hidden figure behind a column.

For a moment, their eyes met.

Lucy’s breath caught. Not because he was handsome—though he was, in a rugged, sun-worn way—but because there was something unguarded in his stare. A weight he carried that was both foreign and oddly familiar, as if he had seen corners of the world she had only read about. She turned away first, pretending to adjust the ribbon at her sleeve, though her pulse remained stubbornly fast.

“Lucy,” her father called, beckoning her closer. “Come greet Mr. Bradford.”

Her skirts rustled as she descended the steps, every movement polished from years of lessons and observation. She clasped her hands before her, forcing composure even as curiosity tugged at her.

“Mr. Bradford,” she said, voice steady, polite. “Welcome to our home.”

He removed his hat, holding it against his chest. Sunlight caught in his fair hair, lighter than most around here, and his eyes—blue, sharp, and assessing—met hers without hesitation.

“Miss Chen,” he replied, voice deeper than she expected, carrying a rasp that hinted at smoke, late nights, and burdens he had yet to name.

No bow, no flourish—just a simple acknowledgment, and yet it felt like more.

Lucy tilted her chin, studying him. He wasn’t like the polished suitors who strutted through parlors eager to impress. He didn’t seem to care whether she found him charming. That, more than anything, intrigued her.

“Your father speaks highly of your work,” she said, seeking a polite opening, though her curiosity buzzed with a sharper edge.

“Plans are easier to respect than people,” he replied with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She blinked, surprised. A man who could speak plainly and still amuse her. “And which are you more interested in?” she asked lightly.

He inclined his head slightly, thoughtful. “Depends on the day.”

The subtle banter hung between them, suspended in the heat and light of the afternoon. Lucy found herself lingering longer than she intended, memorizing the lines of his face, the quiet strength in his movements.

Her mother’s voice intruded then, sharp and officious. “Lucy, come inside. You are not to stare at strangers.”

Lucy bit back a smile, complying, though she glanced back over her shoulder. Timothy was already moving toward the barn, inspecting the horses with meticulous care. Even from a distance, the way he commanded attention, quietly and without force, left her unsettled in a way she hadn’t felt before.

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Breakfast the next morning was subdued, though her mother’s sharp gaze did not miss her distraction.
“You should eat,” Mrs. Chen said, tapping her spoon against the rim of her teacup. “A young lady requires energy for the day.”

“I’m not particularly hungry,” Lucy murmured, earning a disapproving sniff.

Her father chuckled softly. “She has her mother’s spirit, I see. That restless mind can be useful if it finds the right outlet.” He gave Mrs. Chen a look that was part warning, part amusement. “Let her be.”

Lucy hid a smile behind her napkin, grateful for her father’s leniency.

By mid-morning, curiosity overcame decorum. Lucy ventured down toward the stables under the guise of seeking fresh air. Her skirts whispered against the gravel path, and her heart thrummed with anticipation.

Tim noticed her long before she reached the fence. His hat was tilted low, beads of sweat glinting at his temple, but his gaze sharpened the moment it fell upon her.

“Miss Chen,” he said, nodding once in greeting.

“Good morning, Mr. Bradford,” she replied, bowing her head slightly. “You rise early.”

“Work doesn’t wait,” he answered, calm and steady.

“And do you ever tire of being so serious?” she asked, arching one brow.

For a moment, a flicker of amusement crossed his face, so brief it might have been imagined—but his lips remained firm. “Mostly,” he said.

Lucy tilted her head, considering him. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to see if I can make you laugh.”

That seemed to catch him off guard. His brows lifted slightly, and for a heartbeat, the usual reserve in his expression softened. Then he cleared his throat, shifting attention back to the horses. “Best of luck with that, Miss Chen.”

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The hours passed slowly. Lucy found herself lingering near the fence, stealing glances as he worked. She noticed the sun catching the pale highlights in his hair, the flex of his strong arms as he lifted hay bales, the meticulous care he took with each animal.

He, in turn, seemed aware of her presence. Not openly—he did not turn to watch her—but there was an undeniable shift in his posture whenever she came near. A tension, perhaps, that was unspoken but not unnoticed.

When she finally spoke again, it was under the pretense of casual observation. “You take great care with them,” she said, nodding toward the horses.

“They’re not just animals,” he replied quietly. “They’re companions in a way. They deserve respect.”

Lucy’s chest warmed at the soft earnestness in his voice. There was honesty here, and something more—something that made her pulse quicken in ways she had not expected.

Her mother’s voice suddenly rang from the house, sharp and commanding. “Lucy! Do not loiter by the stables.”

Reluctantly, Lucy obeyed, brushing her hands over her skirts as she returned to the house. She stole one last glance over her shoulder. Tim Bradford was still working, steady, quiet, almost impossibly composed, and yet somehow, in the warm summer light, utterly magnetic.

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By evening, the first of the summer storms rolled in. Dark clouds bunched on the horizon, distant rumbles of thunder echoing across the fields. Lucy sat in her room, the window open to catch the faint breeze, listening to the wind rustling the magnolia leaves. The air was electric, almost alive, and she could not stop thinking of him—the way he had looked that morning, the fleeting twitch of amusement at her challenge, the quiet intensity in his eyes.

She pressed her palm against the cool glass, imagining what it might feel like to stand closer, to reach out and touch his hand, to see if the sparks that seemed to fly between them might actually catch.

But she did not.

Instead, she traced the outline of the windowpane with her finger, dreaming of moments yet to come and knowing, deep in her heart, that something had shifted that morning on the stables. Something quiet and insistent, like a whisper carried by the wind.

Chapter Text

The Chen household always woke early, but Lucy had never felt the mornings so keenly as she did now. Perhaps it was the restless night that kept her awake, or perhaps it was the memory of a pair of watchful blue eyes from the day before. Either way, when the first soft light broke through her lace curtains, she rose, dressed, and moved toward the kitchen before her mother could catch her dawdling.

The house was already stirring. Pots clattered, voices murmured, and the smell of baking bread lingered faintly in the warm air. Lucy found herself drawn to the kitchen door, peeking inside to see the bustle of the servants at work.

“Miss Chen,” one of the older women greeted, startled to see her standing there. “Your mama will have words if she finds you down here.”

Lucy smiled, sheepish but unrepentant. “I only wanted to see how things were coming along.”

“Things come along just fine without you,” the woman teased, though kindly, and returned to her kneading.

But Lucy lingered anyway, watching the rhythm of life most young ladies of her standing were never supposed to concern themselves with. She envied the sense of purpose, the tangible work of hands shaping dough, tending to fires, stirring pots. So different from the polite embroidery and recitations her mother prized.

From the courtyard beyond the open door came the sound of men’s voices. She tilted her head, listening.

“…strict as a whip,” one man said. “Never seen an overseer keep so tight a hand.”

“Aye, but fair,” another answered. “Doesn’t raise it without cause. He works alongside us more than most. That counts for something.”

Lucy’s heart leapt before she realized who they must be speaking of. Timothy Bradford.

“Still,” the first man said with a mutter, “he carries himself like a soldier, not a farmer. Always watchin’, like he’s waitin’ for trouble.”

The second gave a dry laugh. “Maybe he is.”

Lucy pulled back from the door, her pulse quickening. The words clung to her as she made her way back inside. Strict. Fair. Watchful. All things she’d noticed herself, though from a different vantage. And though she told herself she ought not to dwell on it, she couldn’t help but wonder just what kind of man her father had hired.

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By midday, the sun pressed heavy against the windows, heat curling through the house in waves. Lucy sat at the piano in the parlor, her fingers moving across ivory keys in a halting melody. Music was both a discipline and a reprieve; her mother demanded practice, but Lucy sought escape in the notes, even when her hands faltered.

She was so absorbed she didn’t notice at first when someone paused at the door. It was only when the melody drifted to an end that she glanced up—and froze.

Timothy Bradford stood there, hat in hand, dust clinging to his boots. He looked entirely out of place against the polished wood and pale drapery of the parlor, yet somehow more solid than anything in it.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said, voice quiet, steady.

Lucy’s breath caught. “You’re not disturbing me. Music doesn’t mind an audience.”

Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, perhaps, or simply acknowledgment. He stepped just inside the doorway, though he held himself as if ready to leave at a word. “I heard the music while delivering word to your father. My mother used to play when I was young. Different songs, but…” He trailed off, then gave a short shake of his head. “Yours reminded me of her.”

Lucy’s hands stilled on the keys. His words, so unexpectedly personal, stirred something in her chest. “Did you play, too?”

A faint smile touched his mouth, almost self-deprecating. “No. My hands were better suited to plow and rifle.”

She laughed softly, though her curiosity only deepened. “Still, you must know the difference between a poor song and a fair one. What did you think of mine?”

He hesitated, then met her eyes. “I think it sounded like it belonged here.”

Warmth bloomed across her cheeks. She opened her mouth to answer, but another voice cut in sharp as a blade.

“Mr. Bradford.”

Her mother stood in the hall, lips pressed thin, eyes narrowed.

Tim straightened, bowing his head with measured respect. “Ma’am.”

“Have you business here?” Mrs. Chen’s gaze darted pointedly to the piano, then to Lucy, disapproval radiating.

“I’d only come to deliver a message to Mr. Chen,” Tim replied evenly. “I’ll be on my way.”

Without waiting for dismissal, he inclined his head again and withdrew, the sound of his boots fading down the hall.

Lucy sat frozen, her heart pounding harder than it had during any sonata.

“Lucy.” Her mother’s tone brooked no argument. “You will keep to your place. A young lady does not waste words with hired men.”

“Yes, Mother,” Lucy murmured, though inwardly her thoughts rebelled. Waste words? Was it wasteful to feel the weight of another person’s gaze? To wonder about the life behind his careful reserve?

Her fingers touched the piano keys once more, but the music had gone out of her entirely.

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The air thickened as the afternoon wore on, a heaviness that pressed against the walls of the house and made even the servants restless. Out beyond the veranda, dark clouds gathered low on the horizon, rolling toward the fields with quiet menace.

Lucy stood at her window, watching the men hurry across the yard with sacks and tools, preparing for the storm. The animals were uneasy—she could hear the distant whinnies from the stables, the shuffle of hooves against dirt. Her mother would expect her to remain in the parlor, safe and dry, but Lucy’s pulse quickened at the thought of staying behind curtains while everyone else labored.

With a glance down the hall to ensure her mother was occupied, she slipped into her boots and hurried outside.

The heat wrapped around her like a damp cloak, the sky above deepening to a bruised gray. She caught sight of Timothy Bradford near the paddock, sleeves rolled, voice raised as he directed two men to secure the gates. He moved with practiced efficiency, every gesture sharp, precise, as though storms had never once surprised him.

Lucy crossed the yard, skirts gathered in one hand. One of the laborers passed her with a hurried nod. She reached the feed shed, grasped a bucket, and lifted it before anyone could tell her otherwise.

The weight surprised her, but she held firm, setting her jaw. If they could work, so could she.

“Miss Chen.”

The voice came from behind, low and edged with disapproval. She turned, breathless, to find Tim watching her, eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hat.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said, striding toward her. The wind tugged at his shirt, plastering it to his frame. “It’s not safe.”

“I’m only helping,” Lucy protested, clutching the handle tighter. “I won’t break for carrying a bucket.”

His jaw tightened. “That isn’t the point.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “If your mother sees—”

“I don’t care.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them. She swallowed, cheeks burning. “I mean…I care about being useful. Not just sitting inside.”

For a moment, he studied her, expression unreadable. Then, without another word, he reached for the bucket, his hand brushing against hers as he relieved her of the weight. The touch was brief but startling, a warmth even in the thickening air.

“Go back inside,” he said, though softer this time.

“I’ll go when you do,” she countered, lifting her chin.

Something like frustration flickered across his face, yet he didn’t argue further. Instead, he turned toward the stables, and, unwilling to yield, she followed.

The sky cracked with thunder just as they reached the paddock. Horses stamped and tossed their heads, nervous energy rippling through the air. Tim set the bucket down and moved quickly, steadying one gelding by the bridle, murmuring low words Lucy couldn’t hear. His voice was calm, certain, and the animal stilled under his touch.

Lucy, emboldened, reached for a halter hanging nearby. She stepped into the pen, careful, trying to mimic his assurance. But the thunder rolled again, closer now, and one of the younger mares jerked against the rail. Startled, Lucy stumbled back, skirts tangling around her boots. Her foot slipped in the mud just as the horse reared, hooves striking dangerously close.

A strong hand caught her by the arm, yanking her clear. She landed against a solid chest, breath knocked from her as the storm broke in earnest overhead. Rain splattered the ground, cool and sudden.

“Are you mad?” Tim’s voice was fierce in her ear, his hand gripping her waist where he’d steadied her. “You could have been crushed.”

Lucy gasped, heart racing, though she wasn’t certain whether it was from fear or the way his arm held her tight. “I was only trying to help,” she whispered.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Rain slicked his hair against his forehead, ran in rivulets down his jaw. His eyes—closer than they had any right to be—searched hers, not merely for defiance, but for something deeper.

Then, abruptly, he released her, stepping back as though burned. “Go inside.”

She drew a shaky breath, nodded, and gathered her skirts once more. But as she hurried toward the house, her skin still tingled where his hand had pressed, her mind replaying the moment again and again.

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That night, the rain drummed steadily against the roof, softening only when the cicadas reclaimed their song. Lucy sat by her window, hair unbound, staring into the drenched darkness. She could still feel his arm around her, the firmness of his grip, the way his voice had dropped when he scolded her. Strict, yes. But beneath it, something else she dared not name.

Across the yard, in his own quarters, Tim sat at a small wooden desk, damp shirt hung over the chair to dry. He leaned forward, elbows braced, staring at the floorboards. He had caught her without thinking, held her longer than he should have, and for a fleeting instant, the world had narrowed to her eyes, her breath, the soft tremor in her voice.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. Foolishness. Dangerous foolishness. She was the master’s daughter—barely nineteen, with a future mapped out far above anything he had a right to imagine.

And yet, despite every reason, he found his thoughts returning again and again to the feel of her weight in his arms.