Clara Tremont fights to save Magnolia Grange, her family estate, with the help of ex-stable boy Dawson Vance, navigating war, betrayal, and rekindling passion in this historical romance.
The summer of 1864 scorched Corwin Valley, leaving the once-great Magnolia Grange a husk of its former glory. The great oak trees lining the drive stood as skeletal sentinels in the haze of smoke, their leaves burned away by drought and ash.
The mansion’s soaring white columns were streaked with soot, and the air inside carried the faint, bitter smell of mildew and despair. Yet Clara Tremont held her head high, just as her mother had taught her.
“This house will never fall,” her mother’s voice echoed in her memory, firm as iron. “Not as long as a Tremont stands.”
But Clara ’s hands trembled as she held the ledger. The numbers did not lie: Magnolia was on the verge of collapse. The fields were fallow, the crops long plundered by soldiers on both sides, and the debts had grown monstrous. The last of the servants had left months ago, and Clara, once the belle of Corwin Valley, was alone.
She was running out of time.
That night, as the horizon blazed orange with the fires of distant battles, the creak of heavy boots on the front steps of Magnolia Grange startled her. A shadow stretched across the soot-streaked floor. Clara looked up from her work and froze, her breath catching.
The man standing in the doorway was familiar in a way that made her chest tighten.
“Dawson Vance,” she said, her voice sharp as a broken spindle, though the heat curling low in her chest betrayed her.
Dawson had been a stable boy once, years ago, before he left the valley to chase something bigger than the life he was born into. But he wasn’t a boy anymore. His sun-browned skin and lean frame gave him a dangerous edge, and his grin was still as sharp and careless as she remembered. His dark eyes lingered on her, taking in the soot-stained hem of her dress and the wild tangle of her hair.
“Evening, Miss Tremont,” he drawled, leaning against the doorframe as if he had every right to be there. “You look… well.”
“Save your pleasantries,” Clara snapped, rising to her feet. “What are you doing here?”
His grin widened. “I heard Magnolia Grange was falling apart. Thought I’d come see it for myself.”
Her pride flared hotter than the summer sun. “Magnolia Grange is none of your concern.”
“Maybe not,” he said with a shrug. “But I’ve got a proposition. You need money, and I need someone who knows this valley. There’s opportunity in chaos, Clara, and the army’s moving through soon. You help me turn a profit, and I’ll help you keep this place standing.”
Clara’s nails dug into her palms. She hated him—hated his audacity, his smugness, his ability to stand there as if he hadn’t spent his youth mucking stalls in her family’s stables. But she hated her desperation more. The land was all she had left, and Dawson knew it. She could see it in the way his eyes glinted like a gambler holding a winning hand.
“What’s the catch?” she asked coolly.
His grin turned wicked. “The catch is me, sweetheart.”
For a moment, she considered slamming the door in his face. But pride alone wouldn’t save Magnolia Grange. And Dawson, infuriating as he was, had always been good at finding cracks in even the most unyielding walls.
“Fine,” she said at last. “But don’t think this makes us partners, Dawson Vance. You’re a tool, nothing more.”
“Whatever you say,” he said, tipping his hat with a maddening wink. “Boss.”
In the weeks that followed, Clara and Dawson scoured the valley together, trading in contraband and dodging patrols. Dawson had a gambler’s instinct for profit, knowing just how far to push without toppling over the edge, and Clara had an uncanny knack for reading people, knowing who would deal fairly and who would stab them in the back. Together, they carved out a fragile lifeline for Magnolia. But the tension between them simmered beneath the surface.
Clara hated how Dawson seemed to thrive in the chaos that had brought her world to ruin. She hated his casual charm, the way he smirked when she snapped at him, and the infuriating way he called her “darlin’” just to watch her bristle. But what she hated most was how alive he made her feel—how, in his presence, the oppressive weight of the war seemed to ease, if only for a moment.
One night, as they stopped at the edge of an abandoned cotton field, the moon hung low, casting its silver light over the charred remains of an old plantation house. The smell of smoke and pine lingered in the humid air. Dawson lit a cigarette and leaned against a rotting fence post, his dark eyes studying her.
“You don’t trust me,” he said, breaking the silence.
“You’re perceptive,” Clara said dryly, folding her arms.
He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his gaze distant. “You think I don’t care about this place. About you.”
She froze, her throat tightening.
“But I grew up here too, Clara,” he continued, his voice softer now. “Not in a house like Magnolia, but I know what it feels like to fight for scraps. To watch the things you love fall apart because someone bigger decided they didn’t matter.”
For a moment, the rawness in his voice disarmed her. But she turned away, unwilling to let his words take root. “I’m not fighting for scraps. I’m fighting for my family’s legacy. For the land my father died for.”
Dawson’s mouth twisted into a rueful smile. “Maybe that’s your problem. You’re so busy holding on to what was, you can’t see what could be.”
His words lingered long after the smoke from his cigarette had dissipated.
As the summer dragged on, their partnership began to strain. Dawson’s schemes grew bolder, and Clara found herself questioning whether he truly cared about saving Magnolia—or if he was simply using her. Rumors of the army’s imminent arrival reached their ears, and the stakes rose higher with every passing day. Their arguments grew sharper, their silences heavier.
Then one evening, Clara returned to Magnolia to find Dawson waiting on the front steps, a satchel slung over his shoulder. His face was unreadable, but his eyes held something she hadn’t seen before—something that made her heart twist.
“I’m leaving,” he said simply.
She stared at him, her pulse quickening. “Leaving? Now? After everything we’ve done?”
“You don’t need me anymore,” he said, his voice low. “You’ve got Magnolia. You’ve always been strong enough to save it on your own.”
Her pride bristled, but it couldn’t hide the ache blooming in her chest. “And what about you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What are you running from this time?”
He hesitated, his hand brushing hers. “I’m not running, Clara. For once… I’m going toward something.”
And then he was gone, disappearing into the night like a shadow.
In the years that followed, Clara rebuilt Magnolia Grange—not as it had been, but as something new. She opened its doors to the weary and the broken, turning it into a refuge for those with nowhere else to go. Though she never saw Dawson Vance again, his words stayed with her, a quiet reminder that even in the ashes of the past, there was room to build something new.
Sometimes, on quiet nights, she thought of him—of the firelight on his face, the rough edges of his voice. She thought of what might have been and what she had chosen instead. But she never let herself dwell on the past. The future, after all, was hers to build.
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