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Chapter 17
The rain had turned the road to Lakewood County into a sloppy, muddy nightmare. Olivia crammed herself onto a packed bus to the township, then hopped an ox cart rattling toward the village.
The cart was stuffed with locals, and none of them had ever laid eyes on a woman like Olivia- smooth skin, poised like a dancer, every move screaming class that didn’t belong in the sticks. Next to her, the local housewives looked like worn–out dishrags compared to fine silk.
The guys on the cart couldn’t stop staring, sneaking glances and gulping hard, too chicken to gawk outright.
Olivia didn’t notice. The cart’s constant jostling had her queasy and wiped out. She kept her head down, eyes squeezed shut, riding out every bone–rattling bump.
It wasn’t until the cart groaned to a stop and the driver coughed that she realized they’d made it.
“Ma’am, we’re at the village,” the driver said, scratching his neck. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. You sure this is your stop? Next cart won’t come till tomorrow.”
Olivia rubbed her temples, forcing herself upright. She squinted at the village sign–peeling paint, crooked letters, but it checked out.
“Yeah, this is it. Thanks.” She grabbed her satchel and started fishing for cash.
The driver waved her off. “Nah, keep it. Ride’s on me.”
Olivia gave a small smile and pressed the bills into his hand anyway. “I insist.”
The guy’s face went pink. “You’re too nice, miss. So, who’re you staying with? I can point you the
right way.
“I think it’s the Carson family,” she said, frowning slightly. “First time here. All I know is my
fiancé’s last name is Carson.”
The driver’s eyes bugged out. “You mean the Carsons? You’re hitching up with Charlie Carson?” He let out a low whistle. “Well, hot damn.”
He nodded toward the muddy field. A guy was slogging their way, boots caked in sludge, looking
like he’d rather be anywhere else. When he spotted Olivia, he sped up, his face tight.
“You Miss Hart?” he asked, stopping in front of her. “I’m Charlie Carson. I’m, uh… your…”
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He fumbled, shooting an awkward glance at the driver still lingering nearby.
Olivia didn’t miss a beat, cool as a cucumber. “My husband. Let’s get moving.”
Charlie blinked, thrown by how smoothly she rolled with it. No whining, no questions–just straight–up acceptance of the hand she’d been dealt, even though they both knew this marriage was
no love story.
Words weren’t Charlie’s strong suit. He just nodded quick and turned, leading the
way.
The driver grinned behind them, shaking his head. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re Charlie’s girl? He hit the freaking lottery. You got a solid guy there, missy. You’ll do just fine.”
Olivia barely caught the words, still fuzzy from the motion sickness.
Charlie cleared his throat, his tanned face–hardened by years of farm work–turning a shade redder. “Path’s a mess from the rain,” he mumbled. “Let me carry you.”
He crouched, offering his back, steady as an oak after years of hauling heavy loads. But Olivia shook her head, stepping off the cart and sinking her boots into the muck.
“I’m good. I’ll walk.”
Charlie didn’t argue, just moved ahead to guide her along the narrow trail.
They trudged about ten minutes before a house came into view–white siding faded from the sun, roof patched with rusted tin and moss, but the porch looked swept and the front steps were sturdy. For a village place, it wasn’t half bad. Still, Charlie looked sheepish.
“This is all we got,” he said, rubbing his neck. “Your dad said you grew up in a fancy place–big garden, glass doors, the works. I know this not like that. But I’ll bust my ass to build you something better, something like you’re used to.”
He paused, then added, softer, “Look, I know you didn’t pick this. If you wanna head back to the
city, I’ll take you. I won’t trap you here, Miss Hart.”
Folks from Camp Liberty had said the same–Olivia didn’t fit out here. She belonged in stilettos, not slogging through mud in rain boots.
But Olivia was done caring about what people thought. She’d survived worse gossip, worse
humiliation.
This wasn’t the end of her story–it was just a new page.
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“I’m staying,” she said, flat and final.
Without waiting for him to respond, she marched to the well, rolled up her sleeves, and started pulling water. She lit a fire to boil it, moving like she’d done it a hundred times.
Not a trace of city–girl softness in her.
Charlie stood there, rooted to the spot.
That’s when it hit him.
She might look like a delicate flower. But Olivia Hart was tougher than anyone he’d ever met.
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