Baby, Drive South

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?”

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.”