His mother had cried for weeks over her missing wedding ring. Even after their father had passed away, she’d worn the gold filigree band every day, but had taken it off moments before the storm hit to do chores. Porter had scoured their property with a metal detector for days before relenting that the ring, like all their other worldly possessions and those of their neighbors, had been lost to the four winds.
When the Armstrong brothers had returned to Sweetness a few months ago, the decaying main road had been overtaken by weeds and fallen trees. Animals had taken up residence in the piles of splintered wood and crumbled brick where houses and businesses had once stood. Porter had taken one look at the remnants of the town, choked with thick kudzu vines, and had been overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task before them. If either of his two brothers had balked at that moment, he would’ve gone with them. Kendall had taken in the wasteland before them in heavy silence; but characteristically, Marcus had simply jammed his hands on his hips and said, “Let’s get to work, boys.”
What lay ahead had been countless hours of back-breaking work for them and the men they’d recruited, most of whom had served with Marcus in the Marines, with Kendall in the Air Force, and with him in the Army. In the beginning, they had all been too tired by the end of the day to think about the fact that their beds were empty. But now…
Porter spotted movement in the distance and jerked the binoculars back to focus. At the sight of heat rising from the dark asphalt in an undulating haze, his heart jumped to his throat—a vehicle was approaching…a large vehicle. Porter squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. When realization struck, he almost dropped the binoculars.
It wasn’t a large vehicle…it was several vehicles approaching. No—
Dozens.
A bumper-to-bumper caravan was headed straight for Sweetness! And from the looks of the arms and heads and long hair lolling out of convertibles and rolled-down windows, the cars were jam-packed with women. Hot, eager, willing women!
Porter slapped his thigh and whooped with joy. He waved his arms, knowing the chances of anyone noticing him at this distance were slim at best. But the ad had worked—he couldn’t wait to tell Marcus! He rushed toward the ladder, returning the binoculars to his belt while fumbling for his cell phone. With one hand he began to scramble down the tall, narrow ladder, using the other hand to speed-dial his brother, half-wishing he could be there in person to see the look on Marcus’s face.
Porter suddenly realized he’d forgotten his shirt and in his hesitation, his foot slipped off a rung. The weight of his body broke his one-handed grip. His gut clenched in realization of just how far a fall off the tower ladder would be. He flailed in midair for a few seconds before conceding defeat and tucking into a roll to help absorb the certain and nasty impact.
As he plummeted through the air, Porter released a strangled curse. Just his rotten luck that carloads of women were finally here…and he’d be lying at the bottom of the water tower with a broken neck.
2
The flat-back landing jarred every bone in Porter’s body and drove the air out of his lungs. He lay there for a few seconds and waited for the initial pain to subside before daring to breathe. When he had no choice but to drag air into his body, he registered gratefully that his lungs hadn’t been punctured. He only hoped the rest of his internal organs had fared so well. The sweet tang of wild grass and the musty scent of soil filled his nostrils. His ears buzzed with more than the noise of the insects in the weeds around him.
He opened his eyes gingerly and saw the water tower looming over him at a seemingly impossible height. The fact that he was alive was a small miracle.
“Porter? Porter?”
At the sound of his name, he blinked, then realized the distant voice was coming from his cell phone lying near his head.
Marcus.
Porter twisted to reach the phone, but when pain lit up his lower left leg, he shouted in agony.
“Porter?”
He made another attempt, gritting his teeth against his body’s rebellion, and finally closed his fingers around the phone. He brought it to his ear. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“What happened?”
Porter winced again, contrite. “I was on the water tower.”
“And?”
“And…I have good news and bad news.”
Marcus’s sigh crackled like static over the phone. “Give me the good news.”
“There’s a caravan of women headed into town.”
“If that’s the good news,” Marcus said sourly, “I don’t think I want to hear the bad news.”
“The bad news is I fell off the water tower and I think I broke my leg.”
Porter held the phone away from his ear to spare himself the litany of curses his brother unleashed. When Marcus quieted, Porter put the phone back to his mouth. “Are you going to come get me, or do I have to crawl back to town?”
“Are you bleeding?”
Porter lifted his head and scanned his dust-covered body. “I don’t think so.”
“For all the good you’ll do me now, I might as well let you lie there,” Marcus growled, then let loose another string of expletives. “I’ll get Kendall. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” Then he disconnected the call.
Porter laid his head back in the deep grass. Marcus was right—they were already short-handed. If his leg was broken, he’d be laid up for at least a few weeks, a liability to his brothers.
And damn, women were coming! Just when there was a good reason to be up and moving around, he’d be relegated to bed…and not for fun.
He pushed himself to a sitting position and eased up the leg of his work-worn jeans. He was relieved not to see bones protruding, but the persistent, shooting pain from his ankle confirmed the injury was more than a bruise. Gritting his teeth against the ache, he inched himself backward to lean against a sapling and swat at gnats until he heard the rumble of two four-wheelers heading toward him.
Kendall came into view first, his face a mask of concern. Marcus followed a few yards behind, his mouth pulled down in annoyance. Porter waved to get their attention. They pulled to a stop a few yards away. For all his irritation, Marcus was the first one off his ride, and the first to reach Porter.
“You okay, little brother?”
“Peachy,” Porter said through clenched teeth.
Marcus glanced up at the water tower, then back to Porter. “Damn fool. Did you think you could fly?”
Anger flashed through Porter’s chest. “Yeah, Marcus, I did a swan dive off the platform.”
“We know it was an accident,” Kendall soothed, crouching to inspect Porter’s leg.
“Doesn’t matter whether it was on purpose or not,” Marcus grumbled. “Outcome is the same—you’re probably out of commission for the whole damn summer!”
“Why don’t we wait to see what a doctor says?” Kendall suggested.
“What doctor?” Marcus said with a snort. “One of us will have to take him to Atlanta. As if we didn’t have enough to do today.”
“Maybe we should call for an airlift,” Kendall suggested.
“It’s not that serious,” Porter protested. “Marcus, if you’ll let one of the workers drive me to Atlanta, I’ll find an emergency room and be back before you know it.”
Marcus gave a noncommittal grunt.
Kendall strode back to the four-wheeler and opened the storage compartment. “I brought a neoprene wrap from the first-aid station, but it’s going to be a bumpy ride on the way down.” He knelt to fasten the wrap around Porter’s ankle, boot and all, then waved for Marcus to get on the other side. When they heaved him to his feet, the flood of pain took Porter’s breath away, covering his face with a sheen of sweat.
“Think about something else,” Kendall urged.
Porter tried to smile. “I’m thinking…about…all the women…waiting…in town.”
“Marcus mentioned you saw some cars headed this way.”
“Dozens of cars
,” Porter said, exhaling loudly. “All carrying…hot, young women. We’ll get down the mountain…just in time…to say hello.”
“You’re going to make a hell of an impression,” Marcus offered. “No one’s going to want a busted-up man to take care of.”
“I beg to differ,” Porter said, setting his jaw against the pain. “Women will be…lining up…to take care of me. In fact…that was my plan…all along.”
Marcus handed him a small stick. “Here, bite down on this.”
“For the pain?”
“No, so you’ll stop talking.”
Porter tried to laugh, but getting settled on the four-wheeler was more painful than he’d anticipated. Ditto for the trip down, although Kendall tried to take it easy.
By the time they rolled into the center of town, Porter was ready to be horizontal—and drugged. But the sight of cars of all makes and models pulling to a stop in front of the boardinghouse and diner and all along the narrow paved road sent a shot of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Blondes…brunettes…redheads…it was a veritable smorgasbord of female deliciousness.
Countless feminine faces peered at them questioningly through windshields and open windows. And from their four-wheelers, the Armstrong brothers peered back. Apparently the workers had noticed the caravan of cars passing by because a rickety supply truck chugged up behind them, with men packed in the back like cattle. The tension in the air was palpable, as if both groups knew the importance of this moment, each side sizing up the other.
Porter shot a glance at Marcus and at the panicked look on his older brother’s face. A pang of sympathy barbed through him. Poor Marcus. He hated situations he couldn’t control. By comparison, Kendall’s expression was anxious. He panned the sea of faces, willing…but wary.
Porter decided it was up to him to show these beauties what Southern hospitality was all about. Summoning his strength, he ignored the excruciating pain and pushed himself to a standing position on the four-wheeler.
“Ladies,” he shouted, lifting his arms, “on behalf of the Armstrong brothers and our friends, welcome to Sweetness, Georgia!”
Suddenly everything started to go dim. He vaguely heard the sound of whoops and car doors slamming just as he tumbled headlong from the four-wheeler. At least this fall wasn’t as far…but damn, his pride would be busted all to hell. Before he hit the hard clay ground, though, something broke his fall…Kendall. He heard Marcus’s voice, cursing, as always, coming to him through a tunnel.
“We need help!” Marcus shouted.
Porter was being laid on the ground. He felt the warm, baked dirt beneath his shoulder blades, sensed the crush of bodies closing around him. His leg was on fire.
“Is anyone a nurse?” Marcus repeated. “My brother fell off the water tower and might have broken his leg!”
Porter felt his equilibrium returning, blinked his eyes open, tried to bring the faces of the circle of women who surrounded him into focus. Alien female scents assailed his nostrils…fruity shampoos, floral perfumes…heaven.
“Will a doctor do?” a female voice said, distant, but strong.
Even flat on his back and fighting unconsciousness, Porter’s pulse spiked in anticipation of seeing his angel of mercy. Would she be blonde? Leggy? Busty? Tall?
The circle of onlookers parted to let her in and when she stepped into his line of vision, Porter fought a stab of disappointment.
None of the above.
3
Dr. Nikki Salinger had wondered how long it would take before she truly regretted this arduous trek to Sweetness, Georgia.
“That would be now,” she muttered under her breath as she crouched to study the rather large man who had delivered a magnanimous welcome to this so-called town in the middle of nowhere, then dropped like a sack of potatoes. She thought she’d imagined the flutter of movement she’d seen at the top of the water tower when she was driving in. Little did she know it was this fool testing gravity.
The day-long drive from Broadway, Michigan, had left her tired, dusty, hungry and irritable. If the travel conditions weren’t wearisome enough, the prattling of the three women who had ridden along in her van was enough to drive her completely mad. Traci, Susan and Rachel could recite the newspaper ad they were responding to by heart: The new town of Sweetness, Georgia, welcomes one hundred single women with a pioneering spirit looking for a fresh start! Blah, blah, blah. The women were particularly excited about the part promising lots of single, Southern men. In fact, Rachel Hutchins, whom Nikki’d had to sidestep to reach the ailing man, seemed to view their adventure as one big manhunt.
Nikki pursed her mouth. She was probably the only woman in the caravan who wasn’t in the market for a husband, and here she was, the first one paraded out in front of the herd of men.
Not that it mattered. Next to most of the tall, curvaceous, ultra-feminine women like Rachel, she was boyish and plain in comparison. With her small stature, she knew she came up short, in more ways than one. A fact born out by the faint look of disappointment in her patient’s blue eyes when she’d walked into his view. No matter—she’d never been the prettiest girl in the room…but she was usually the smartest. And that would have to do for the big, strapping man lying flat on his back in need of her services.
“Please give us some room,” she said to the crowd as she set her medical bag on the ground.
Perspiration trickled down her temples, and energy hummed along her nerve endings—just like every time she handled a medical emergency, she told herself. It made no difference that the dark-haired man before her was shirtless and muscle-bound and bronze from working in the Southern sun. His torso was peppered with bloody scrapes and smudges, presumably sustained in his fall.
She reached out to brush aside damp, thick hair to feel his forehead, but dismissed the expected warmth to the day’s blazing heat—he didn’t have a fever. Then she pressed her finger to the underside of his thick wrist to check his pulse…not as strong as she’d like, but steady. He was conscious and breathing, but his eyes were slitted.
“What’s his name?” she asked the two men hovering nearby who had the same cobalt-blue eyes as the injured man.
“Porter, ma’am,” the younger-looking of the two responded. “Porter Armstrong. I’m Kendall and this is Marcus—we’re his brothers.”
Nikki nodded then leaned closer to her patient’s ear. “Mr. Armstrong, I’m Dr. Salinger. Where does it hurt?”
“My…ankle.”
“Anywhere else?”
He grimaced. “My pride.”
That made her smile. “Are you allergic to any medications?”
He gave a laborious headshake.
“Okay, hang in there and I’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible.”
She withdrew a syringe and a vial of painkiller, even as her gaze darted back to the man’s face to check his coloring. During her inspection, she took note of his thick eyebrows, broad nose and strong, clefted chin. She ignored the growing murmur of concern and appreciation moving through the crowd of women, as well as the elevation of her own pulse. Porter Armstrong was a patient. The fact that he was better looking than most of her patients back in Broadway was of no consequence—good-looking bodies were beset with sickness and injury the same as average-looking and below-average-looking bodies.
Still, when Nikki gripped his impressive biceps to swab it with alcohol, then stabbed the smooth brown skin with a hypodermic, she acknowledged clinical appreciation of a healthy muscle for accepting and disseminating the painkiller more effectively. But her admiration ended there.
Within a few seconds, the tension in her patient’s face eased and a sigh escaped his lips. “That…feels…better…little…lady…doc.”
Nikki bit down on the inside of her cheek. “Good.”
Satisfied the injection was enough to take the edge off his pain, she unfastened the neoprene wrap to survey his ankle. The skin was purple and had swollen over the top of his lace-up work boot. At best, it was a
nasty sprain. At worst…well, she’d reserve judgment for now, but the swelling was worrisome. Nikki removed a pair of scissors from her bag and cut his jeans leg up to the knee, eliciting more hums from the crowd.
“Nikki, is there anything I can do to help?” Rachel asked, her cotton-candy pink mouth a bow of mock concern.
With great effort, Nikki resisted rolling her eyes. Rachel seemed to think they had something in common because the woman once had been a receptionist in a dermatology office. She’d gushed about their mutual medical “expertise” the entire drive south.
“No, thank you,” Nikki chirped, then turned her attention back to the leg that had all the women atwitter, and loosened the tie of his boot. The swollen joint ballooned into the extra room provided. For now she left the boot on to support his injured ankle. The skin wasn’t broken, but a hematoma encompassed the ankle and disappeared into his heavy sock. She palpated the skin gingerly, sensitive to her patient’s sharp intake of breath.
“I need to take an X-ray to determine if anything’s broken.” She looked up at the other Armstrong brothers. “Where is your medical facility?”
When the two men avoided her gaze, she got a sinking feeling. “You don’t have one?”
“We have a first-aid station with basic supplies,” Kendall said. “But no X-ray equipment.”
“We were planning to drive him to Atlanta,” Marcus offered. “Or we could call for an airlift if you think it’s serious.”
Nikki was starting to realize how primitive this “town” really was. The shrinking multi-doctor family practice she’d left back in Broadway suddenly didn’t seem so bad. She swallowed hard. “Does your first-aid station have a place for him to lie down?”
“No,” Kendall admitted, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “But we can move him to the boardinghouse.”
It would have to do. “There’s a portable stretcher in the back of my van,” Nikki said, “along with a mobile X-ray machine, and other supplies.” She nodded toward the workers who were still standing in the back of the supply truck like livestock. “Could some of your friends give me a hand unloading?”
Baby, Drive South Page 2
