Baby, Drive South

by Stephanie Bond

  “Are you okay up there?”

  “I should go,” she said into the phone. “Thanks for the advice, Amy.”

  “No problem. Take care.”

  Nikki disconnected the call, then made her way back around the platform to the ladder and looked down.

  Porter waved up at her. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes,” she called. “Just a few more minutes.”

  “Take your time,” he said through cupped hands. “I’m having a blast down here with the bugs.” He swatted at the air like a windmill, nearly falling off his crutches.

  She smiled and her heart lifted—a little. Then she reminded herself that Porter Armstrong was only trying to make up for the things he’d said about her yesterday.

  Things about the sad state of her love life that were more true than even he knew.

  Nikki turned away and quickly checked her email account. The only message of significance was from her former employer Dr. Hannah, saying how much they missed her in the practice and reminding her that the door was always open if she wanted to come back. Good to know. Nikki didn’t respond, but saved the message.

  She started for the ladder, then remembered the forgotten work shirt and went back to get it. Without a place to stuff it, and afraid it would be in her way if she tied it around her waist, she pulled on the shirt and rolled up the sleeves, then began her descent.

  The climb down seemed to go faster, and before she realized it, she was out of rungs. She was planning to drop to the ground, but suddenly a strong arm wrapped around her waist and lowered her to the ground. She tried to disentangle herself from Porter Armstrong as quickly as possible, but a full-body slide was unavoidable.

  And the friction between her pliable frame and his hard physique was not unpleasant.

  “Hey, that’s my shirt,” Porter said.

  “I figured as much,” she said, shrugging out of it.

  “Keep it. It looks good on you,” he said with a wave.

  “It swallows me whole.”

  “It looks…cute,” he said, reaching forward to pluck a small blossom out of her hair. “Windy up there?”

  “Yes,” she said, warming under his touch. “What kind of flower is that?”

  “Mountain laurel,” he said, handing it back to her. It looked like a small umbrella in her palm. “It’s all over these mountains.”

  “It’s pretty,” she murmured. “Like the view up there.”

  He nodded. “It’s grand, isn’t it? And did you get a good cell signal?”

  “Yes. I was able to make a phone call and check my messages.”

  “Everything okay?”

  She looked up, wondering if the fact that she’d been delivered an emotional blow was written all over her face. “Everything’s fine,” she lied.

  His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t question her. “Ready to head back?”

  “Yes. I’d like to talk to that mechanic about my van.”

  “Sure thing,” he agreed, then led the way back to the four-wheeler.

  “You are very proficient on those crutches,” she remarked.

  “This ain’t my first rodeo,” he said with a little laugh.

  Nikki pressed her lips together, debating whether to pry. She wasn’t going to be here long enough for details about this man to matter. “I noticed the shrapnel scars when I examined your leg.”

  He didn’t respond, and it was hard to decipher his expression.

  “In what branch of the military did you serve?” she pressed.

  “Army.”

  “Iraq?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “I’m not. I was proud to be there.”

  “I’m sure you were,” she said. “I meant I’m sorry for what you must have gone through. I’ve worked with veterans.”

  “It was bad,” he agreed. “But not as bad as what the people who live there deal with. Every day I’m grateful to be here on this land.”

  “I’m sure,” she said, with a growing appreciation for the attachment Porter Armstrong and his brothers had to these mountains. Nikki caught sight of something glinting through the dirt and leaves at her feet, and crouched to investigate.

  “What’ve you got there?” Porter asked, stopping.

  She brushed away bits of debris and used her fingers to dig out the dirt-covered item that was attached to a chain.

  “It’s a pocket watch,” Porter said with a smile. “Good eye.”

  “Someone must’ve dropped it while they were walking around up here.” She handed it to him.

  “Maybe,” he agreed, rubbing at the dirt and peering closer. “Or maybe it was carried up here by the tornado. We find things every day that were scattered by the storm—jewelry, tools, furniture, sometimes even photographs.”

  “Is there any way we can find its rightful owner?”

  He gave her a smile. “We can try. It’s time you met Colonel Molly. Let’s go.”

  During the ride back down on the four-wheeler, Nikki tried to hold herself away from Porter’s broad back, but gravity pressed her against him. She didn’t want to like the feel of her hands around his waist. She didn’t want to like anything about this man—or any man, for that matter. The news of Darren’s engagement to the young dancer he’d cheated on her with reverberated in her head, returning the echoes of How dumb could you be? Men don’t fall for women like you. Men want a sex bomb by their side and in their bed…

  She’d never had time to date when she was in medical school, or during her residency. She’d become accustomed to eating alone and sleeping alone. When attorney Darren Rocha had stopped by the practice where she worked in Broadway with flu symptoms, they’d connected on an intellectual level and their relationship had slowly developed from there. The night Darren had proposed, she distinctly remembered lying awake next to him thinking how happy she was, and feeling as if it was all too good to be true.

  In hindsight, it had been.

  Suddenly Porter’s hand covered hers. “You okay back there?” he called over his shoulder.

  She instinctively pulled her hand out from under his. “I’m fine,” she said, more sharply than she intended.

  To have someone you trusted betray you so thoroughly and so publicly, was excruciating. But far worse was knowing she couldn’t trust her own judgment where men were concerned. They all had an angle that would be revealed in time.

  After a few minutes, the slope of the terrain leveled out and the roof of the boardinghouse came into view. Porter steered the ATV back into its parking place and killed the engine. Nikki climbed off, relieved to be away from him. But her mind still reeled and her hands were shaking from Amy’s pronouncement, leaving her fumbling with the strap on her helmet.

  “Let me help you with that,” Porter said.

  She protested, but he brushed her fingers aside and, leaning on his crutches with his elbows, deftly unfastened the strap. She avoided eye contact, staring studiously at the cleft in his chin. A cleft chin was actually a bone deformity, resulting from the imperfect fusion of the left and right sides of the jaw during fetal development.

  But it was an appealing deformity.

  “Thank you for the ride,” she said stiffly, then pulled off her helmet.

  “No problem, little lady doc.” He lifted her chin with his finger. “Did something happen on the water tower?”

  His voice sounded gentle, but she reminded herself that this man felt sorry for her. He’d basically admitted to his brothers that he’d kissed her out of pity.

  She yanked her chin away. “Nothing to concern yourself about. You were going to introduce me to someone named Molly?”

  “Right,” he said, then headed in the direction of the dining hall. “Colonel Molly McIntyre grew up here, but left to join the Army. She retired after thirty years and when she heard we needed someone to feed our crew, she signed on to run our diner.”

  “So the men take every meal here?” Nikki asked, gesturing t
o the long, industrial building.

  “Unless we do something special, like the barbecue last night, which we try to do as often as we can.” He winced as he held open the door with a crutch. “Molly runs an organized ship—but she’s a terrible cook.”

  That made Nikki smile. “So you’re bringing me here for a bad meal?”

  “Molly’s been doing one other thing for the town,” he said, following her inside.

  Nikki took in the no-frills dining hall—a long serving counter up front where food was chosen or served cafeteria style, and rows of hand-hewn wooden tables and benches. Inside were a few stragglers who looked less than enthusiastic about the breakfast they were eating.

  “This doesn’t look like a diner,” she felt compelled to say.

  “We have big plans,” Porter said with a grin. “Which you’ll hear all about if you come to the town meeting.”

  A stocky woman wearing a camouflage apron stood behind the serving counter, checking an enormous conveyor dishwasher. Porter waved to get her attention.

  Molly walked toward them, drying her hands, a stern look on her face. “Kitchen’s closed until lunch, soldier.”

  Porter gestured to his leg. “Come on, Colonel. I’m wounded here—and starving. You can’t rustle up something special for me?”

  “No. And don’t go winking those big blue eyes of yours. You know your sweet-talkin’ ways are wasted on me.”

  Nikki smothered a smile. She was inclined to like this woman.

  Porter sighed, then turned to Nikki. “Molly, I’d like to introduce Dr. Nikki Salinger. Dr. Salinger patched me up.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dr. Salinger. I’m Molly McIntyre.” Molly stuck out a sturdy hand, which Nikki shook.

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “You’re not one of those vegetarians, are you?” the woman asked suspiciously.

  “Er…no,” Nikki said, then turned over the woman’s hand and pointed to a red rash. “Contact dermatitis, I’m guessing from the dish soap. Are you treating it?”

  “Doc Riley gave me a lotion he made out of blueberry leaves.”

  Nikki pursed her mouth. “If the itching continues, you might want to see a real doctor for a steroid cream.”

  Molly was unfazed. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

  “Dr. Salinger made an interesting find this morning up by the water tower,” Porter said, then pulled out a bandanna he’d wrapped around the pocket watch and handed it over to Molly. “Do you mind if I show her the property room?”

  Molly’s face lit up as she inspected the watch. “Go ahead. I’ll get this piece cleaned up.”

  Porter led the way through a rear exit of the dining hall. A few yards away sat a large, long metal building with a combination lock on the door. He punched in a number, then pushed open the door and flipped on a light.

  It was, Nikki realized at a glance, a warehouse.

  To the right of the entrance was a work area with a desk, tables, file cabinets, utility sinks, a water hose, rags and various cleaning supplies. The rest of the building resembled one enormous swap meet—furniture, lawn statues, quilts, clothing, musical instruments, tools, even a couple of motorcycles.

  “Here’s where we keep all the valuables we find.” He opened a file cabinet to reveal tagged plastic bags. He lifted a random bag that held a shiny silver picture frame, with a stained, but legible black-and-white wedding photograph inside. “Molly cleans and repairs everything and matches it to a list of items residents declared missing after the tornado. If she’s able to locate the former resident, she ships the item to them. If not, she tags it, bags it and stores it here.”

  Nikki stared at the wedding photo, thinking of how much that picture had meant to the people in it, and to their children. “Until when?”

  He shrugged and returned the picture frame, then closed the file cabinet. “We haven’t decided. One of our ideas is to get a website going so it’s easier for former residents to contact us.”

  “There are at least a couple of techie-types who came in our group,” she offered.

  “Kendall will be glad to know that.”

  Surveying remnants of the people who had once lived in Sweetness was almost overwhelming. She could picture people sitting in these rocking chairs, eating around these tables. These people had loved and laughed and cried and raised their families here. A tornado had obliterated their histories, which might have gone unrecorded if not for the Armstrong brothers trying to resurrect an entire town with their bare hands.

  It was mind-boggling.

  Nikki walked over to a group of odds-and-ends furniture cordoned off in a corner, drawn to a massive wood headboard with the distinctive curve of a sleigh bed. It was an aged piece, but the finish gleamed.

  “How beautiful,” she breathed, running her hand over the satiny wood.

  Porter came up behind her. “My mother thought so.”

  She turned. “Your mother?”

  He nodded. “These are all things that came from our home. This was the bed she and my dad shared. Over there’s the coffee table Marcus made her one year for Mother’s Day. And there’s the cabinet she kept her good dishes in, minus the glass. But we did find a few of the dishes intact. We’re keeping everything for the day we can bring our mother back to Sweetness.”

  Myriad emotions played over his handsome face, and his deep blue eyes brimmed with affection. Nikki could only imagine how many memories washed over him every time he looked at his family heirlooms and keepsakes. The loss of her own family felt acute at that moment. Her heart welled, but at the same time, she didn’t want to know these personal stories, didn’t want to become emotionally invested in a place she was planning to leave. Suddenly, returning to Broadway was preferable to staying here and being lulled into a fantasy. The Armstrongs were operating on a wing and a prayer, trying to recapture a sense of home and family that were long gone. Rebuilding Sweetness was going to take a Herculean effort by people who truly cared.

  And she didn’t want to care.

  Nikki drew herself up. “This is all very nice,” she managed to say. “But if you don’t mind, I’d really like to talk to that mechanic about getting my van repaired so I get on the road back to my home.”

  She turned and strode out, before she could think too hard about the definition of “home.”

  13

  Porter watched Nikki march out of the property room, uncertain what had caused the about-face in her mood. One minute she’d been admiring the keepsakes of the town’s former residents, and the next minute, she couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  He wondered again about the phone call she’d made on top of the water tower. Had the situation she’d left back in Broadway changed? Did someone there want her to come back?

  He cast another look at the recovered pieces of his mother’s furniture—it always gave him faith that they would reach their goal of restoring the town of Sweetness and relocating their mother back to the place where she’d met their father, raised her children and laid to rest members of her family, his dad included. He needed to do whatever it took to grow the town. And right now that meant convincing the Broadway women to stay.

  Including Dr. Salinger.

  She stood there waiting for him, arms crossed, looking off in the direction she wanted to go—away from Sweetness. Damn, if she didn’t look good in his shirt.

  “I’m calling the mechanic now,” Porter said, pulling out his cell phone.

  “Good,” she chirped.

  Did anyone care that his leg was throbbing like a toothache? Porter stabbed in Kendall’s number.

  “Porter?” Kendall answered. “Where are you? And why aren’t you helping me and Marcus get ready for this meeting you roped us into?”

  “I’m calling to check on the doctor’s van,” Porter said, exaggerating his tone so Kendall would know something was up.

  “Oh, brother. Is Dr. Salinger standing there?”

  “You got it,” Porter said.

  �
�You’re pathetic.”

  “Whatever it takes,” Porter said cheerfully.

  Kendall laughed. “I think this woman is getting the best of you, little brother.”

  Porter hardened his jaw. “Keep me posted.” He disconnected the call before his brother could say some other fool thing.

  “What did the mechanic say?” Nikki asked, her face hopeful.

  Porter hesitated. If she wanted to go home that badly, maybe he should just reconnect her fuel pump and let her go. The woman’s talents would probably be wasted in a place like this, where most of her cases were likely to be pulled muscles and bee stings.

  Then he reminded himself of the enormous challenge he and his brothers had before them. And like it or not, this woman could be the linchpin.

  “He said it looks like the problem is your fuel pump.”

  “And?”

  “And…he’s ordering a new…thing.”

  She looked pensive. “A new fuel pump? How long will that take?”

  He shrugged. “A few days maybe.”

  “Will it be delivered?”

  “Yeah.”

  She looked around. “Where’s the post office?”

  “Uh…we don’t actually have a zip code yet.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “How will a replacement part be delivered?”

  “Let me worry about that,” he said breezily. “You fixed me up, so I’ll fix up your van.”

  She looked dubious, but he could tell she was weighing her options and coming up with none. “You should get some food in your stomach,” she said finally, then turned and skirted the dining hall, heading for the rooming house.

  He felt a twinge of remorse for deceiving her, but told himself that there must have been a good reason for her to answer their ad. Maybe if she stayed here long enough, she would remember why.

  “Don’t forget the town meeting!” he called after her.

  But if she heard him, she didn’t respond.

  Porter frowned, then backtracked through the dining hall. He found Molly standing next to a window, scrutinizing the newly shined silver pocket watch under a magnifying glass.

  “Find any identifying marks?” he asked.

  Molly handed him the magnifying glass. “Three initials. First two are C and A, I think. Can you make out the last one?”