his weight to his good leg, then moved the crutches forward and swung his body to catch up. It was an awkward movement, but muscle memory kicked in from years before when he’d been on crutches for an injury he’d rather forget.
“Looks like you got the hang of it,” Dr. Salinger said. She opened her bag and removed a bottle of pills. “Stay off your feet for the next couple of days. These are for the pain. You should take them with food.”
“I’m famished,” he admitted.
“The men are having a barbecue in the meadow for our visitors,” Kendall said, then jerked his head toward Dr. Salinger when she wasn’t looking. Porter, not understanding whatever his brother was trying to tell him, lifted his hands in confusion.
She picked up her bag. “My work here is done.”
“Dr. Salinger,” Marcus said into the silence, his voice solicitous. “Have you had time to unpack?”
“Not yet,” she said, her voice hesitant.
“I hope your room is satisfactory,” Kendall added in a rush.
She gave him a little smile. “Yes, it’s very comfortable. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I think I’ll call it a night.”
Her slim shoulders drooped as she walked toward the door. Guilt washed over Porter. The woman was a long way from home, and her first day in a strange place had been spent taking care of him. Yet he’d been no gentleman. If his mother were privy to his behavior, she’d give him a good tongue-lashing.
Porter felt the expectant gaze of both of his brothers on him, but he couldn’t conjure up any flattering praise to assuage his earlier slight. Instead, he resorted to an approach more familiar to him—flirting.
“Hey, darlin’, it’s way too early to call it a night,” he said, using the voice he reserved for thirty minutes before a bar’s closing time. He winced—his words sounded cheesy even to him, an opinion seconded and thirded by his brothers’ withering looks.
Dr. Salinger turned back and kept moving, but pinned him with her intriguing green eyes. “Maybe so, but I have a book to finish, and I wouldn’t want my cat to get lonely.”
Porter’s mouth opened, but he seemed to have lost his ability to speak.
The thud of the door closing behind her mirrored the impact of his heart dropping to his stomach. He was an ass.
“Porter, you’re an ass,” Marcus confirmed.
“What are we going to do?” Kendall asked, uncharacteristically flustered. “She’s probably on her way upstairs to pack and hightail it off this mountain!”
“We aren’t going to do anything,” Marcus said, then reached forward and thumped Porter on the chest. “Fix this, or I might be tempted to break your other leg.”
Porter winced and rubbed his sore pectoral muscle. He had no doubt Marcus would do it.
“If Dr. Salinger leaves Sweetness,” Kendall added, pacing the floor with agitation, “the rest of the women will probably leave, too. They won’t want to live where they can’t get medical care.” He jammed his hand into his hair. “If word gets out how primitive the conditions are on this mountain, we might never get another woman to set foot in Sweetness.”
It shook Porter to see his middle brother so rattled. Sure, the town would grow more quickly with women, and Kendall had been the one who decided to place the ad in Broadway, Michigan, but…he was acting as if he had an emotional stake in these women staying—
“Porter!” Marcus shouted. “Are you hearing us? You were the one so gung-ho about bringing a bunch of females here. We spent a damn fortune building this boardinghouse and fixing the water tower for them. Now they’re here and you’ve managed to maul and insult the only doctor on her first day!”
“You do need to make this right,” Kendall admonished.
“Oh, no, don’t put this all on me,” Porter said, then an idea occurred to him. “Unless…you want to sweeten the pot a little.”
Marcus frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If I can convince the doctor to stay…the homestead gets deeded to me.” The Armstrong homestead, where once stood the house they’d grown up in.
“That piece of property belongs to all of us,” Marcus said.
“But Porter keeps it cleaned off,” Kendall countered. “And face it, Marcus, if we can’t get this town off the ground, owning a piece of isolated property on Clover Ridge is going to be a moot point.”
Marcus lifted his hands. “Okay. If you can get the doctor to agree to sign a two-year employment contract, you can have the homestead property, little brother.”
Porter grinned. “You got yourself a deal.”
A rap on the door made them all turn. “Doc” Riley Bates stood there, his soiled work hat in his hand, his grizzled face apprehensive. The man was the oldest worker they had, and even though he pulled his weight, the brothers always tried to find light duty projects for him. Since he had no family, Porter suspected Riley hung around more for company than because he needed or wanted the work. Porter had a soft spot for the man, who got along well with the workers and gave them teas and compresses for sore throats and black eyes.
“Hey, Riley,” Kendall said. “What can we do for you?”
The man gestured toward Porter. “I heard about the accident. I brung something that might help.” He held up a small jar.
Marcus grunted. “Thanks, Riley, but we’re good—”
“What is it?” Porter cut in, waving the man forward.
“Wintergreen oil,” the man said, offering a toothy grin as he handed Porter the grubby jar. “It’s good for pain and for swelling.”
The man took an “earthy” approach to bathing, too—his body odor was breathtaking. Porter held his breath. “Thank you kindly, Riley. I’ll try it.”
“Good,” the man said, then planted his feet and looked at Porter expectantly. “Go ahead.”
“He’ll try it later,” Marcus said.
Riley looked wounded. “It works better the quicker you rub it in.”
“Then let’s get to it,” Porter said, knowing the man wouldn’t be satisfied otherwise. Besides, what could it hurt? He opened the jar and gave it a sniff. The strong minty scent burned the hair in his nose and made his eyes water. He dipped his fingers into the oil and dabbed it on the skin around the top and bottom of his cast. Then he looked at Riley. “Feels better already.”
Riley grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Guess I better get back to work. You let me know, Porter, when you run out.”
“Will do,” Porter promised.
The old man backed out of the room. When the door closed, Marcus exhaled and waved his hand in front of his face. “I don’t know what smells worse—the man, or his concoctions.”
