Back to the ‘70s: My Life as the Trouble-Maker's Bride

Charles looked up as Stuart approached, his face lighting up as if he'd just spotted a lifeline. "Hopewell! You're just in time—the damn tractor died halfway here and won't start again."

Stuart handed his bag to Annette and crouched by the engine. Charles held a flashlight, his voice anxious. "Can you fix it quickly? Who the hell did this to Carl? That kind of brutality…"

Though Charles had little love for Carl's laziness, he didn't wish this fate on him either. The longer the delay, the worse it could get.

Stuart silently adjusted the belt and gave the crank another spin. This time, the engine roared back to life.

Charles climbed on without another word. "Let's go, quick. We might not have much time."

Annette, seated beside Stuart, stared at Grace, slumped in the back like a ghost, while Clara sniffled beside her, one hand rubbing her belly.

Two days, two hospital runs. What a family.

When they reached the county hospital, Grace shot Stuart a hopeful look, expecting him to pay. But he simply reminded Charles to slow down and walked away with Annette.

Grace had no choice but to rush after the medics with Charles.

Stuart took Annette straight to the local police to report the assault. The moment the officers heard about the mutilation—and that Stuart worked in a classified nuclear facility—they treated the case with gravity. A couple of officers followed them back to the hospital immediately.

Annette, energized by the chaos, practically skipped alongside them. Back at the hospital, they arrived just in time to hear the doctor solemnly announce: "There's no saving that organ. The only thing we can do now is clean the wound and stabilize him."

Annette glanced at the clock and the chart. With modern skills, she could've saved it. It hadn't been too long. But this little hospital didn't have that kind of surgeon.

She did.

But she said nothing.

When Grace heard the news, she fainted on the spot. Clara sank into a chair, too stunned to cry. A husband turned eunuch—what future was left?

By the time Grace came around, the police began questioning them.

"Who was Carl with tonight?"

Charles didn't know. He'd returned from town to find Carl sulking alone on the kang.

Grace and Clara were clueless, too. "He went out in the morning and never came back."

"Any enemies?"

Well, that was harder.

Grace and Clara faltered. Carl had a temper—he'd once shouted at someone over animal dung, gotten into a ditch-digging brawl with Scarface Zhang, and just last month, traded punches with Dog-Ear. He wasn't easy to get along with, sure—but did that really warrant something this cruel?

The police recorded everything and turned to Stuart. "We'll head to Riverbend Village at dawn. Once Carl wakes up, we'll return for more questions."

Stuart nodded. "Thanks for your help."

As they walked the officers out, Annette asked in a hushed voice, "Do you think whoever did this was aiming for you?"

Stuart turned to her. "Could you have fixed it?"

Annette blinked. "Me? What? Of course not, I'm not a doctor."

But Stuart had seen the way she smirked earlier, when the doctor announced nothing could be done. She hadn't looked dismayed. She'd looked amused. Her eyes had lit up.

Like someone who knew the truth—and was holding it back on purpose.

Annette scratched her nose, changing the subject. "Should we stay at the hospital tonight?"

"I'll take you to the guesthouse first," Stuart said.

Annette shook her head. "Forget it. I'll just crash in the hallway here. Save the money. And I want to see how this plays out."

He said nothing, only walked her back.

Grace still sat weeping, eyes closed. She had always doted on Carl and Nancy the most—her two sweet-talking favorites. Now, Carl was a eunuch. She couldn't take it.

Annette chose a bench far from Grace and sat down. The late-winter air cut like a blade. No heat in the hospital. Her breath came out in white puffs.

She was freezing.

Just when she was about to stand up and pace, Stuart handed her his military coat. "It gets colder after midnight."

"You're injured."

"It's fine now."

She hesitated only a second, then wrapped herself in it. It smelled like sun-warmed pine and dry snow—so clean it made her want to close her eyes and dream.

Just before sunrise, Carl came out of surgery. Still unconscious.

The doctor explained how to feed and care for him. "Keep him calm. It'll be hard for a man to accept this kind of injury."

A nurse handed over the chart. Stuart signed. Annette peeked over his shoulder.

Blood type: AB.

She remembered Stuart's was O. Not that odd—siblings had different types all the time.

Carl woke up around noon.

The second he learned what had been done to him, he screamed.

Grace clutched him. "Please don't move! What if your stitches tear?"

But Carl wouldn't calm down. He thrashed and wailed and cursed.

Between sobs, Grace suddenly asked, "Was it Laura? Did Laura do this to you?"

Standing just outside the door, Annette's ears perked up.

Laura? What did she have to do with this?