smorgasbord of female deliciousness.
Countless feminine faces peered at them questioningly through windshields and open windows. And from their four-wheelers, the Armstrong brothers peered back. Apparently the workers had noticed the caravan of cars passing by because a rickety supply truck chugged up behind them, with men packed in the back like cattle. The tension in the air was palpable, as if both groups knew the importance of this moment, each side sizing up the other.
Porter shot a glance at Marcus and at the panicked look on his older brother’s face. A pang of sympathy barbed through him. Poor Marcus. He hated situations he couldn’t control. By comparison, Kendall’s expression was anxious. He panned the sea of faces, willing…but wary.
Porter decided it was up to him to show these beauties what Southern hospitality was all about. Summoning his strength, he ignored the excruciating pain and pushed himself to a standing position on the four-wheeler.
“Ladies,” he shouted, lifting his arms, “on behalf of the Armstrong brothers and our friends, welcome to Sweetness, Georgia!”
Suddenly everything started to go dim. He vaguely heard the sound of whoops and car doors slamming just as he tumbled headlong from the four-wheeler. At least this fall wasn’t as far…but damn, his pride would be busted all to hell. Before he hit the hard clay ground, though, something broke his fall…Kendall. He heard Marcus’s voice, cursing, as always, coming to him through a tunnel.
“We need help!” Marcus shouted.
Porter was being laid on the ground. He felt the warm, baked dirt beneath his shoulder blades, sensed the crush of bodies closing around him. His leg was on fire.
“Is anyone a nurse?” Marcus repeated. “My brother fell off the water tower and might have broken his leg!”
Porter felt his equilibrium returning, blinked his eyes open, tried to bring the faces of the circle of women who surrounded him into focus. Alien female scents assailed his nostrils…fruity shampoos, floral perfumes…heaven.
“Will a doctor do?” a female voice said, distant, but strong.
Even flat on his back and fighting unconsciousness, Porter’s pulse spiked in anticipation of seeing his angel of mercy. Would she be blonde? Leggy? Busty? Tall?
The circle of onlookers parted to let her in and when she stepped into his line of vision, Porter fought a stab of disappointment.
None of the above.
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
