Baby, Drive South. Stephanie Bond
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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