Baby, Drive South

by Stephanie Bond

  Kendall put two fingers in his mouth and gave an ear-piercing whistle. Men began pouring out of the truck, waiting for direction. Nikki tried to stand, but a tug on her wrist held her back. Porter Armstrong had wrapped long, strong fingers around her wrist. “Little lady doc?”

  Unbidden, his touch made her heart race. His lopsided smile grabbed at her. His bright blue eyes, even hazed with painkiller, were riveting and so, so sexy.

  “Yes?” she managed to say.

  He pulled her closer until his breath brushed her cheek. “Did you bring any pretty nurses with you?”

  Nikki blinked at the dig, but was saved from responding when his eyes fluttered closed. With an irritated sigh, she checked his pulse again. The brute had passed out.

  Nikki stood and strode to the back of her extended van. At a signal from one of the Armstrong brothers, workers began lining up at the rear of her vehicle, although they were visibly distracted by all the eye candy around them. The men openly ogled the preening women standing around their vehicles, and blonde, hair-twirling Rachel Hutchins was getting more than her fair share of attention. Giggles and elbow pokes ensued. Nikki groaned inwardly at all the coupling to come, then chided herself. The other women had come looking for love, not to escape a cheating fiancé. She couldn’t begrudge them their fun simply because she didn’t plan to have any.

  She’d always wanted to build her own practice, she reminded herself. Here was her chance. While the men unloaded box after box of supplies from her van and headed toward the obviously just-built “boardinghouse,” Nikki took a minute to look around the town of Sweetness.

  Which, as far as she could see, consisted of the boardinghouse and some kind of eatery—both constructed with a patchwork of materials—and a hut the Armstrong brothers indicated was their “first-aid station,” all sitting at the crossroads of the paved road they’d driven in on and a red dirt road leading somewhere unknown. The white water tower they’d seen on their long approach, Nikki realized, was a veritable flag warning visitors how far back in time they were traveling. Even in decline, the manufacturing town of Broadway, Michigan, was a bustling metropolis compared to this place.

  She’d been duped by a marketing ploy. The name “Sweetness” conjured up lush shade trees, tall glasses of lemonade and white wicker swings. Instead, it was a hot, sticky, dirty, bleak little spot in the road. On a mountain. And from the way the men and women were looking at each other, Sweetness was about to become one big speed-dating pool. And if Porter Armstrong’s reaction to her was any indication, she would be the odd person out.

  Which was just as well, since she wasn’t looking for a man.

  Really, she wasn’t.

  Nikki was suddenly beset with a pang of homesickness for the town and the people she’d left behind. Hot tears stung her eyes. It was the “looking for a fresh start” part of the ad that had caught her attention. But what had she gotten herself into?

  Was this what Southerners meant by the saying “out of the frying pan and into the fire”?

  Panic gripped her and Nikki considered jumping behind the wheel of the van and peeling out of there—the little nothing of a town was welcome to the supplies already unloaded. She even took a step toward the driver’s side.

  Then she caught sight of Porter Armstrong being eased onto a hard plastic stretcher, with his brothers on either side, their body language fraught with concern. And something about the looks that passed between the three men stopped her. It was more than sibling obligation—it was apprehension born of deep affection, an unbreakable bond. And the way the workers responded to the Armstrong men, it was clear their relationship went beyond that of employers and employees—they were family.

  Nikki’s heart squeezed. Family—something she lacked. She was all alone in the world. She’d thought her engagement was the first step toward creating her own family, something she craved desperately. It was the main reason her fiancé’s betrayal had shaken her to the core. What the Armstrong brothers were trying to do here—bring together disparate people from different regions of the country to build a community from scratch—was a concept that appealed to her on a base level. She wanted to be a part of this grand experiment. This might be her last chance to form her own family, if not in the traditional sense, then a family of friends and neighbors.

  From the stretcher, Porter Armstrong lifted his dark head. “Hey, where’s our doctor?”

  Our doctor.

  The man was looped on the painkiller, but when his hooded gaze met hers, Nikki’s stomach did a little flip. She blamed the uncharacteristic reaction on her vulnerable emotional state. She had no intention of falling for another man who didn’t want her. But meanwhile, duty called.

  “Coming,” she said, then picked up her physician’s bag and strode toward her first patient. The first of many?

  Only time would tell.

  4

  With her heart clicking in her chest, Nikki followed the line of men toward the building they referred to as the “boardinghouse,” staying close to her patient who was being transported on a hard plastic stretcher by his brothers.

  Porter Armstrong grinned. “Look at me—I’m the Queen of Sheba being carried around by my servants.”

  “I’m not your servant,” Marcus barked over his shoulder.

  “Pipe down, little brother,” Kendall said, his tone a friendly warning.

  From the exchange, Nikki realized that beneath the obvious affection between the three men ran an under-current of discord. “It’s the painkiller talking,” she offered. “He doesn’t realize what he’s saying.”

  “Dr. Salinger, our little brother talks out of his head most of the time,” Marcus said drily, “with or without medication.”

  Porter turned his head in her direction, his eyes glassy and his smile lopsided. “Marcus and Kendall are sticks in the mud,” he slurred, then thumped himself on the chest. “Tell all your pretty friends I’m the fun Armstrong brother.” He was looking past her to Rachel Hutchins, who had found a bag of cotton balls to daintily bring along under the guise of helping to transport supplies.

  Nikki tried not to react to being excluded from the “pretty” group, but his words cut deep. Academically, she knew that her ex, Darren Rocha, cheating on her said more about his shortcomings than hers, but it was hard not to feel deficient in the looks department—and otherwise—when your fiancé strayed with a stripper.

  Her expression must have given her away because Kendall flashed an apologetic smile, then leaned over Porter and said, “Shut your pie hole. Dr. Salinger is here to try to patch you up, not hook you up.”

  “I was only—ow!” Porter’s protest was cut off when, like a snake striking, Kendall boxed his brother’s ear.

  Nikki blinked. This was how Southern men treated each other—punching at will? It occurred to her suddenly they were all probably armed, too. Was this a renegade town? Would she be treating gunshot wounds? She wasn’t a surgeon, hadn’t dealt with serious trauma cases since her residency. And she hadn’t noticed a police station or a jail along the road coming in. So who was keeping order in this would-be town of Sweetness, Georgia?

  Behind her, she heard two men carrying supplies whispering. “I don’t know about you,” one of them said, “but I’m not going to a female doctor.”

  “Me, either,” the other man said. “Too embarrassing. Riley can fix me up if I need it.”

  “You got that right.”

  She forced herself to keep moving forward, her mind churning with questions that would have to wait until after she stabilized Porter Armstrong’s ankle.

  The multicolored wood-plank siding—some planks bare, some painted, some weathered, some new—gave the two-story boardinghouse a decidedly cottage feel. But upon closer inspection, it was huge. A long, deep wraparound porch lined with rough-hewn rocking chairs welcomed them into a spacious great room that was warmly, if sparsely, furnished. The pungent scent of sawdust filled her nostrils as footsteps echoed off the bare wood floors and
freshly painted white walls. She walked past a large kitchen and dining room, then lifted her gaze to the second floor. Behind a bright red railing that stretched for days on both sides were numerous doors, presumably bedrooms. Nikki swallowed hard. She hadn’t planned on sharing a kitchen and living area with dozens of other women. She only hoped each room had its own bath facilities.

  Assuming she stayed.

  The wide hall crossed another hallway with more rooms stretching on both floors to the right and to the left. At last the group emptied into a large room spanning the rear of the house that appeared to be another great room of sorts, with bays of tall windows shepherding in slanting rays of the southern sun. The room was largely empty and almost the size of a dance hall. Crazily, she had visions of square-dancing accompanied by much hooting and hollering.

  The older Armstrongs deposited their brother, who was now singing at the top of his lungs, on a long, sturdy table.

  “Will this do, Dr. Salinger?” Kendall asked her, wincing at Porter’s off-key rendition of “Crazy.”

  She nodded, then directed workers where to set the boxes of equipment and supplies. Rachel stood prettily in everyone’s way. Not surprisingly, Porter Armstrong was angling his melodramatic delivery toward the statuesque blonde.

  “…and I’m crazy for luh-uh-ving…yooooo…”

  Marcus clamped his hand over Porter’s mouth, reducing his lyrics to a muffled protest. “Dr. Salinger, we’ll start building a proper clinic right away,” Marcus told her while his brother squirmed under his pressing hand. “And when everything calms down, we’d like to talk to you about an employment contract.”

  Nikki merely smiled, unwilling to commit to staying long enough to inhabit a brick-and-mortar building—or whatever strange materials these men would use for construction.

  “What can we do to help you now?” Kendall Armstrong asked.

  Nikki put her hand to her forehead. Since medical school, the gesture had helped her switch into crisis management mode. “Clear everyone out of here.”

  “I can assist you, Dr. Salinger,” Rachel offered brightly.

  “Everyone,” Nikki repeated evenly. “I need to get an X-ray of this leg and see what I’m dealing with.”

  Kendall started shepherding everyone, including the reluctant Rachel, out of the room. Then he turned back and glanced at Porter, who was shouting, “Hey! Where is everybody going? We finally have women in this town…let’s have a party!”

  “He can be a pill,” Kendall said. “We’ll check back to see if you need a hand.”

  Nikki nodded.

  Kendall hesitated, then said, “Dr. Salinger, I know the women are probably looking forward to getting settled, but…” He looked sheepish. “Let’s just say while we hoped our ad would elicit a response, this is all a little…uh—”

  “Overwhelming?” she supplied.

  “Yes, ma’am. Is there a particular lady you’d suggest I talk to who would help to coordinate the rest of the group?”

  Nikki mentally reviewed the faces and names of the nearly one hundred women who’d traveled from Broadway that she knew—a good number of them, in fact, since many had been patients of hers. Nice enough women, all of them, with different talents and strengths. As much as she resisted, her mind kept going back to one woman.

  “Rachel Hutchins,” she said finally. “The tall blonde who offered to assist me.” She resisted adding that Rachel was no “lady,” instead offering, “Rachel spear-headed the trip down here. She has a record of everyone in the group.” The woman was vain and haughty, but she could get things done.

  Kendall inclined his head. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll leave you to your patient.” He flashed a smile. “Good luck.”

  When the double doors closed, Nikki looked back to said patient, who was now singing a song she didn’t know, but it had something to do with trains, pickup trucks and mama. Nikki inhaled for strength, walked over to him and removed his work boot and sock. He wailed throughout.

  “Mr. Armstrong,” she said loudly, poking one finger in her ear, “as much as I’m enjoying your singing, I need for you to be quiet while I X-ray your ankle.”

  He stopped. “Mr. Armstrong is my brother Marcus. Call me Porter.” A frown pulled at his mouth and he glanced around wildly. “Why did everyone leave?”

  “I asked for some privacy,” she murmured, then pushed a button to power up the hand-held X-ray scanner.

  He wagged his dark eyebrows. “You wanted to be alone with me, little lady doc?”

  Nikki rolled her eyes. “For professional reasons only, Mr. Armstrong. Now I’m going to remove your pants.”

  “Porter,” he corrected, then grinned and clasped his hands beneath his head, as if he were getting comfortable. “And if I had a nickel for every time a woman took my pants off—”

  “Spare me the calculation,” she interrupted, lifting her scissors. “I’m only cutting open your jeans so I can X-ray your entire leg. You might want to be still so I don’t snip something I shouldn’t.”

  That did it. For the time being, at least, he lay unmoving. If only her hands would be as still, she thought with consternation as she laid open the fabric to reveal the rest of his leg.

  It was a fine leg. Corded with thick muscle and covered with dark hair except where it had been rubbed off in spots, presumably by tall boots. Small jagged scars started below his knee and grew larger in an arcing pattern moving up his thigh, ending just below the edge of his black boxer briefs.

  Nikki winced inwardly—shrapnel scars. She’d completed her residency at a veterans’ hospital, so she’d seen her fair share of the ravaging war wounds. Her respect for Porter Armstrong rose a notch—the man was no stranger to pain.

  He squirmed. “Uh, little lady doc?”

  “Dr. Salinger,” she corrected.

  “This is a little embarrassing.” His cobalt blue eyes were sheepish as he lowered his hand to cover the growing bulge in his underwear.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d seen it in her medical career, but it was still unexpected. She averted her gaze and said, “It’s okay, Mr. Armstrong.”

  “Don’t take it personally,” he slurred. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to a woman.”

  Nikki pursed her mouth. “I don’t take it ‘personally,’ Mr. Armstrong. It’s simply a physiological reaction.” And even though his erection obviously wasn’t meant for her, she took a moment to note its impressive size out of clinical curiosity.

  If pressed, she’d have to say the man’s sex organ was above average.

  “I’m trying to think of something else,” he said, “but it’s hard—” He stopped. “I mean, it’s difficult to think of something else with all those good-looking women outside.”

  “Keep trying,” she said wryly, then pulled the lead-lined apron she was required to wear while operating the X-ray machine over her head.

  He made a face at the bulky garment. “I never had a woman want to get me alone and then put more clothes on.”

  Nikki rolled her eyes and picked up the hand-held scanner. “Mr. Armstrong, if you keep talking, I’m afraid this is going to be very painful.” Painful for her, but he didn’t have to know that.

  “Porter,” he muttered, but fell quiet.

  Nikki had to smother a smile while she held the scanner close to the skin, then ran it slowly over his foot and leg.

  She hit a button to tell the machine she was finished, then waited while the image appeared on the eight-by-ten-inch black-and-white screen.

  “Is my ankle broken, doc?”

  Nikki studied the X-ray and took her time responding. “The ankle is simply the joint where your leg bones meet your foot bones.” She turned the screen and pointed to the skeletal image. “Looks like the tibia, which is the larger leg bone connected to your foot, is intact. But the smaller bone, the fibula, is broken, and I’m guessing you have some torn ligaments, too.”

  “Can you fix me up?”

  “I can set the bone and
apply a cast to your ankle to support it while everything heals. The bone had a clean break, so it should be fine. But the ligaments are less predictable, and your ankle could be dislocated. You really should see an orthopedic surgeon sometime in the next few weeks to make sure it’s healing properly.”

  “How long will I be laid up?”

  “At least six weeks.”

  He frowned. “That long?”

  “More if you have complications.”

  He looked devastated. “Are you sure?”

  She set down the X-ray machine so he could see the screen. “I’m only telling you what I see,” she said, arching her eyebrow. “You’re welcome to get a second opinion.”

  A sheepish expression crossed his face. “Okay, do whatever you need to do, little lady doc.”

  She pulled out a syringe and filled it from a vial.

  “Except give me another shot,” he protested, pushing up on his elbows. “I already feel…loopy.”

  She flicked the syringe. “Trust me, Mr. Armstrong, you don’t want to be awake while I set the bone.”

  “Porter. And I can handle pain.”

  “No doubt,” she said, nodding to his scars. “But there’s no need to be a hero here. Besides, my job will be easier if you’re under.”

  “Okay,” he grumbled.

  “While you’re out, I’ll clean your cuts.” She leaned over his arm and swabbed it with an alcohol pad.

  “You smell nice,” he murmured, his voice husky.

  The remark caught her by surprise, sending a shiver along her shoulders. She forced a little laugh. “I smell like the road I came in on.”

  “You smell good to me.”

  He smelled good to her, too. A mixture of perspiration, sun and a woodsy scent that didn’t come from a bottle. All male.

  She sucked in a breath, then stabbed his arm with the syringe and dispensed all the painkiller, for both their sakes. He relaxed noticeably. Nikki leaned down to hold his eye open to check the pupil.

  The man had a high level of concentrated pigment in the iris—in other words, his were the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.