Baby, Drive South (4 page)

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

W
ith 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.

“It sure is nice to have women around,” he slurred. “It’s been a long…long time.”

“So you said, Mr. Armstrong,” she murmured, then leaned over to check his other eye, satisfied the medicine was doing its job.

“Porter,” he whispered.

Suddenly his hand reached up to clasp her neck, and before she realized what was happening, he’d pulled her mouth down on his for a long, wet kiss.

5

N
ikki lost her balance and fell against Porter’s chest. In those few seconds, she wished she wasn’t a doctor and this man wasn’t her patient, because it was…a…very…good…kiss. His lips were firm, his tongue seeking. Unbidden, fire streaked through her chest, and an alien sensation—lust?—flowered in her midsection. The realization made her stiffen. The man was sex-starved and under sedation.