Praise for the novels of
STEPHANIE BOND

“The perfect summer read.”

—Romance Reviews Today on Sand, Sun…Seduction!

“[My Favorite Mistake] illustrates the author’s gift for weaving original, brilliant romance that readers find impossible to put down.”

—Wordweaving.com on My Favorite Mistake

“This book is so hot it sizzles.”

—Once Upon a Romance on She Did a Bad, Bad Thing

“An author who has remained on my ‘must-buy’ list for years.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“True-to-life, romantic and witty, as we’ve come to expect from Ms. Bond.”

—The Best Reviews

“Stephanie Bond never fails to entertain me and deserves to be an auto-buy.”

—Romance Reviews Today

Baby, Drive South
Stephanie
Bond

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to every person

who has ever lived in “the country”…

and to those who long to.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stephanie Bond was raised on a farm in Eastern Kentucky where books—mostly romance novels—were her number one form of entertainment, which she credits with instilling in her “the rhythm of storytelling.” Years later, she answered the call back to books to create her own stories. She sold her first manuscript in 1995 and soon left her corporate programming job to write fiction full-time. Today, Stephanie has over fifty titles to her name, and lives in midtown Atlanta. Visit www.stephaniebond.com for more information about the author and her books.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Prologue

Marcus Armstrong gaped at his two younger brothers sitting on the other side of his desk, unable to believe his ears. “Is this a joke? The last thing we need in this town is women!”

Middle brother, Kendall, averted his gaze and wiped his hand over his mouth. But their younger brother, Porter, always the hothead, leaped from his chair.

“This isn’t a joke, Marcus, and you’re being an idiot!”

Marcus planted his hands on his desk, then pushed to his feet. “Watch your mouth, little brother. I can still pin your ears back if I have a mind to.”

Porter’s chin went up. “I’d like to see you try that.”

Kendall stood and positioned himself between them, hands up. “That’s enough, you two. Let’s sit down and discuss this like businessmen—and brothers.”

At Kendall’s calming tone, some of Marcus’s anger defused, replaced by a twinge of guilt. Kendall had been playing referee all of their lives. Marcus conceded it was the only way the three of them had gotten as far as they had rebuilding their hometown of Sweetness, Georgia, which had been leveled by an F-5 tornado ten years ago.

By the grace of God, no lives had been lost. But with the infrastructure of the dying, remote mountain town obliterated, residents had abandoned their property and fled to safer and more prosperous ground. Of the three of them, only Porter had been around when the tornado had struck. After seeing their widowed mother settled in with her sister near Atlanta, he’d returned to the Armed Forces, like his older brothers. Scattered to far ends of the world, they each had fulfilled stints of active duty in different branches, then, fortuitously, their tours had ended within a few months of each other and they’d returned to civilian life.

While working in the Air Force on reconstruction projects after natural disasters, Kendall had learned of the U.S. government’s interest in “green-town” experiments. He proposed they apply to the program to rebuild the town of Sweetness on the burgeoning industries of alternative energy and recycling. The recycling had made sense because there was a ton of debris to clear before they could lay out roads and set the boundaries of the new town. They were given a grant and a two-year window to meet minimum requirements—otherwise the land designated as the city limits of Sweetness would revert to the government. Three months into the enormous undertaking, they were making progress and Marcus was pleased by the fact he and his brothers were seeing eye to eye on the reconstruction efforts…except, apparently, on one critical topic.

“Kendall,” Marcus said, “surely you don’t support Porter’s cockamamie idea of bringing women here.”

Kendall looked pained, then lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “The men are getting restless, Marcus. They’re young and…”

“Horny,” Porter supplied.

“Right.” Kendall sighed. “They want some female companionship, or at least some feminine scenery.”

“There’s Molly at the dining hall,” Marcus said.

“Molly is a fine woman,” Kendall replied, “but she’s old enough to be a grandmother to most of these men.”

“Except she was a colonel,” Porter added drily. “So she’s not exactly the warm and fuzzy grandmotherly type. The other day she clocked me with a wooden spoon because I couldn’t finish that gruel she calls oatmeal.”

“We’re lucky to have her here,” Marcus said. “How else would we feed the men?”

“Marcus, she runs that place like a mess hall. And the food is terrible.”

“It’s…edible,” Marcus said in her defense. “And it’s good that she keeps the men in line.”

“Molly is a blessing,” Kendall conceded. “But surely you understand the men are more interested in having eligible, young women around.”

Marcus scoffed. “These are mostly military guys—they’re used to being without female company.”

“Sure, when they were in Iraq and Afghanistan!” Porter blurted out. “But now that they’re back on American soil, they want to see some American beauties.”

“We’re only a few hours from Atlanta,” Marcus remarked.

“Four hours,” Porter reminded him.

“The men don’t seem to mind the drive when they caravan into the city on the weekends.”

Kendall made a thoughtful noise in his throat. “But invariably, some of them don’t come back Monday morning. They’re either in jail or in love.”

Marcus pulled on his chin. Ten crews of twenty-five men each was the minimum number of bodies they needed to keep things moving forward. Admittedly, it was getting harder to recruit new workers to replace the men who went AWOL every week.

A commotion outside the office trailer caught their attention. Kendall looked out the window, then bolted for the door. “It’s another fight.”

Marcus cursed and followed his brothers outside where a few hundred yards away, two men rolled in the red mud, fists flying, while other men stood around egging them on. Kendall and Porter rushed forward to pull the men apart, but wound up getting dragged down in the mud with them instead. Marcus rolled his eyes, then reached for a water hose coiled nearby and turned a stream full force on the fighting men. “Break it up!”

The men separated enough for Kendall and Porter to drag them to their feet and shove them in opposite directions.

“He started it!” one man yelled.

“That’s bullshit!” the other man yelled.

“Enough!” Marcus roared. “One more word and your pay will be docked!” He turned to address all the workers. “The next man who wants to fight will be fired on the spot, got it? Now get back to work!”

The men grumbled, but everyone made their way back to the mountainous pile of tires that were being sent through an industrial shredder, cleaned and bagged as mulch. It was their first viable commercial product. Porter, a natural salesman, had convinced several state parks and botanical gardens to switch from natural wood mulch to their reclaimed product that would last for decades. Everything was moving forward as planned…except for the constant fighting among the men.

Kendall and Porter walked toward Marcus, slinging mud from their arms. “It’s only going to get worse,” Porter said. “These guys are together all the time, with no way to blow off steam.”

“I have to agree, big brother,” Kendall offered, picking up the hose to wash off the worst of the sticky red mud.

“C’mon, Marcus—having women here will help the town grow faster,” Porter urged. “We’re going to need retail stores and teachers and nurses—”

“And lawyers and doctors,” Kendall broke in, giving Porter a chastising squirt with the hose.

“I don’t care what they do for a living,” Porter said with a grin, “as long as they bring skirts and high heels and perfume. I don’t blame the men—I’m tired of being around a bunch of sweaty, ugly guys, too. And that includes you two.”

Marcus pursed his mouth. “So this is really about you, Porter. You want us to import women for your own entertainment.”

“No.” Then Porter shrugged sheepishly. “But I don’t plan to sit on the sidelines, either. Unlike you, Marcus, I don’t hate women.”

Marcus gritted his teeth. “I don’t hate women. I just know that bringing a bunch of females into this town prematurely will be a disaster of epic proportions.” He gestured to the barren red-clay expanse of ground extending to a distant tree line. “Where are they supposed to live? In the men’s barracks?” The utilitarian rectangular building sat at the end of the work site, adding little to the landscape.

“We could build a boardinghouse across from the dining hall,” Kendall offered, handing off the water hose to Porter. “It could be the start of our downtown.”

“What about our dire water situation?” Marcus asked, jerking the hose out of Porter’s hand and turning it off before he could rinse himself.

“We’d need to repair the water tower sooner rather than later,” Kendall admitted.

“But the sooner we make this place civilized,” Porter piped up, “the sooner we can bring Mother back home.”

A pang struck Marcus in his chest—Porter knew his soft spot. Their mother’s pining for her hometown had fueled their decision to rebuild Sweetness. With the whiff of defeat in the air, Marcus pulled his hand down his face. “And how do you propose we go about attracting women to a place where drinking water is at a premium, and the nearest mall is a helicopter ride away?”

Porter’s teeth were white in his mud-covered face. “I volunteer to go to Atlanta and start recruiting right away.”

Marcus frowned. “At strip clubs and bars? No, thanks.”

“You have a better idea?” Porter asked.

“I think it’s a bad idea all the way around!” Marcus shouted, then glanced at Kendall, who was, as usual, standing poised to jump between them if necessary.

“But…I’ll go along with it,” Marcus announced, then silenced Porter’s shout of victory with a raised hand. “If you’ll handle the logistics, Kendall.”

Kendall’s eyes widened. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Porter can get the men started on building a rooming house and repairing the water tower while you figure out how to import the kind of women we’ll need to grow Sweetness.”

Marcus turned and strode back toward the office, his muscles tense. A palpable sense of impending doom overwhelmed him.

“Where are you going?” Kendall called behind him.

“To take cover,” Marcus yelled over his shoulder. “Because you boys are about to unleash another natural disaster on this town.”

1

Porter Armstrong stepped off the metal ladder onto the platform of the newly restored, white water tower soaring over the resurrected town of Sweetness, Georgia. “Town” was a generous description of the expanse of stark land beneath him—fields of bare red clay stretched as far as the eye could see, hemmed by stands of stunted hardwood trees that still bore the ravages of the tornado that had obliterated the small mountain town a decade ago.

Porter had happily united with his older brothers, Marcus and Kendall, in their efforts to rebuild Sweetness. With an army of strong men, they’d made great strides in clearing debris and establishing the basis for the recycling industry they hoped would provide an economic foundation for the fledgling town. One too-tall, too-perfect pine tree in the distance was actually a camouflaged cell tower erected by a communications company turned partner, eager to get in on the ground floor of the green experiment.

The project of which the brothers were most proud—the newly paved road containing recycled asphalt—was a neat black ribbon leading from the horizon into what had been established as the town center. Granted, downtown Sweetness was more of a vision than a reality since it currently consisted of a dining hall and the boardinghouse that had been built in preparation for impending visitors. But the brothers were optimistic.

Or, according to some, crazy.

Colonel Molly MacIntyre at the diner was one such person. She ruled the men and their dining hall with an iron fist, and did not cotton to the idea of, in her words, “a bunch of flibbertigibbet females” taking over the town.

Porter shrugged out of his work shirt and folded it over the railing to enjoy a rare cool June breeze. The summer heat had been brutal already, with the temperature and humidity sure to get worse before getting better. He pulled a bandanna from his jeans pocket and wiped the sweat dripping down his neck as he scanned the horizon, hoping for a glimpse of movement—anything that might indicate a response from the ad Kendall had placed in the newspaper. The ad had run in a northern town hit particularly hard by the economic downturn, and had stated their need for “one hundred women looking for a fresh start.” Kendall had reasoned women were more likely to come and stay if accompanied by friends and if they relocated from a good distance. Women in nearby Atlanta, his brother had insisted, would be too likely to hightail it back home when the going got rough.

Whatever. It wasn’t as if Northern women were any different from Southern ones.

The ad had hit the newspaper in Broadway, Michigan, a week ago, and Porter had climbed the water tower several times a day in the hopes of spotting a car or moving van headed their way.

Their eldest brother, Marcus, who had grudgingly agreed to the plan to import women, belly laughed every time Porter returned to their office and gave a thumbs-down. Porter dreaded going back to face his gloating big brother again. Marcus was convinced no eligible woman in her right mind would come to their remote mountain town despite the lure of lots of strapping, single Southern men.

For his part, women who weren’t in their right mind were just the kind of women Porter was hoping would answer their ad. Reckless, ripe and ready for the picking. He hadn’t bedded a woman in…

He cursed under his breath as he unclipped a pair of binoculars from his belt. If he couldn’t remember when he’d last had a woman’s legs wrapped around him, it had been way too long.

Porter adjusted the lenses to bring the distant landscape into focus, zeroing in on the brand-spanking-new road. Due to cost and labor, the brothers had decided to wait to add yellow striping until enough cars arrived to warrant two-way traffic control. For now, the most frequent travelers of the road—rabbits, skunks, opossums and armadillos—didn’t seem to mind the omission.

Porter skimmed the view for any signs of human life. In the old days, the water tower had been a lookout for lightning fires and other natural disasters. The metal box on the side of the tank held tornado sirens. By a bizarre twist of fate, the tower from which the mammoth tornado had been spotted to allow an alarm to be sounded had been the only structure spared in the ensuing destruction. Tornadoes at this altitude were rare, and this one had been monstrous. Every resident had survived, but every man-made thing in the storm’s path had been leveled. To the tiny town already dying a slow economic death, it had been the fatal blow.

His brothers hadn’t been in town when it happened, but Porter had been home on leave from the Army and vividly remembered climbing out of a root cellar after the twister had passed. Ground-level pictures and television footage couldn’t quite capture the utter obliteration of homes, schools, businesses, churches. Only aerial photographs of the flattened debris showed the enormity of the loss. Those gut-wrenching pictures were branded on Porter’s brain—their own homestead and all its contents had simply vanished from its concrete footer. Hauntingly, the black metal mailbox left standing at the end of the driveway was the only proof the Armstrongs had ever lived on that spot.

His mother had cried for weeks over her missing wedding ring. Even after their father had passed away, she’d worn the gold filigree band every day, but had taken it off moments before the storm hit to do chores. Porter had scoured their property with a metal detector for days before relenting that the ring, like all their other worldly possessions and those of their neighbors, had been lost to the four winds.

When the Armstrong brothers had returned to Sweetness a few months ago, the decaying main road had been overtaken by weeds and fallen trees. Animals had taken up residence in the piles of splintered wood and crumbled brick where houses and businesses had once stood. Porter had taken one look at the remnants of the town, choked with thick kudzu vines, and had been overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task before them. If either of his two brothers had balked at that moment, he would’ve gone with them. Kendall had taken in the wasteland before them in heavy silence; but characteristically, Marcus had simply jammed his hands on his hips and said, “Let’s get to work, boys.”

What lay ahead had been countless hours of back-breaking work for them and the men they’d recruited, most of whom had served with Marcus in the Marines, with Kendall in the Air Force, and with him in the Army. In the beginning, they had all been too tired by the end of the day to think about the fact that their beds were empty. But now…

Porter spotted movement in the distance and jerked the binoculars back to focus. At the sight of heat rising from the dark asphalt in an undulating haze, his heart jumped to his throat—a vehicle was approaching…a large vehicle. Porter squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. When realization struck, he almost dropped the binoculars.

It wasn’t a large vehicle…it was several vehicles approaching. No—

Dozens.

A bumper-to-bumper caravan was headed straight for Sweetness! And from the looks of the arms and heads and long hair lolling out of convertibles and rolled-down windows, the cars were jam-packed with women. Hot, eager, willing women!

Porter slapped his thigh and whooped with joy. He waved his arms, knowing the chances of anyone noticing him at this distance were slim at best. But the ad had worked—he couldn’t wait to tell Marcus! He rushed toward the ladder, returning the binoculars to his belt while fumbling for his cell phone. With one hand he began to scramble down the tall, narrow ladder, using the other hand to speed-dial his brother, half-wishing he could be there in person to see the look on Marcus’s face.

Porter suddenly realized he’d forgotten his shirt and in his hesitation, his foot slipped off a rung. The weight of his body broke his one-handed grip. His gut clenched in realization of just how far a fall off the tower ladder would be. He flailed in midair for a few seconds before conceding defeat and tucking into a roll to help absorb the certain and nasty impact.

As he plummeted through the air, Porter released a strangled curse. Just his rotten luck that carloads of women were finally here…and he’d be lying at the bottom of the water tower with a broken neck.

2

The flat-back landing jarred every bone in Porter’s body and drove the air out of his lungs. He lay there for a few seconds and waited for the initial pain to subside before daring to breathe. When he had no choice but to drag air into his body, he registered gratefully that his lungs hadn’t been punctured. He only hoped the rest of his internal organs had fared so well. The sweet tang of wild grass and the musty scent of soil filled his nostrils. His ears buzzed with more than the noise of the insects in the weeds around him.

He opened his eyes gingerly and saw the water tower looming over him at a seemingly impossible height. The fact that he was alive was a small miracle.

“Porter? Porter?”

At the sound of his name, he blinked, then realized the distant voice was coming from his cell phone lying near his head.

Marcus.

Porter twisted to reach the phone, but when pain lit up his lower left leg, he shouted in agony.

“Porter?”

He made another attempt, gritting his teeth against his body’s rebellion, and finally closed his fingers around the phone. He brought it to his ear. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“What happened?”

Porter winced again, contrite. “I was on the water tower.”

“And?”

“And…I have good news and bad news.”

Marcus’s sigh crackled like static over the phone. “Give me the good news.”

“There’s a caravan of women headed into town.”

“If that’s the good news,” Marcus said sourly, “I don’t think I want to hear the bad news.”

“The bad news is I fell off the water tower and I think I broke my leg.”

Porter held the phone away from his ear to spare himself the litany of curses his brother unleashed. When Marcus quieted, Porter put the phone back to his mouth. “Are you going to come get me, or do I have to crawl back to town?”

“Are you bleeding?”

Porter lifted his head and scanned his dust-covered body. “I don’t think so.”

“For all the good you’ll do me now, I might as well let you lie there,” Marcus growled, then let loose another string of expletives. “I’ll get Kendall. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” Then he disconnected the call.

Porter laid his head back in the deep grass. Marcus was right—they were already short-handed. If his leg was broken, he’d be laid up for at least a few weeks, a liability to his brothers.

And damn, women were coming! Just when there was a good reason to be up and moving around, he’d be relegated to bed…and not for fun.

He pushed himself to a sitting position and eased up the leg of his work-worn jeans. He was relieved not to see bones protruding, but the persistent, shooting pain from his ankle confirmed the injury was more than a bruise. Gritting his teeth against the ache, he inched himself backward to lean against a sapling and swat at gnats until he heard the rumble of two four-wheelers heading toward him.

Kendall came into view first, his face a mask of concern. Marcus followed a few yards behind, his mouth pulled down in annoyance. Porter waved to get their attention. They pulled to a stop a few yards away. For all his irritation, Marcus was the first one off his ride, and the first to reach Porter.

“You okay, little brother?”

“Peachy,” Porter said through clenched teeth.

Marcus glanced up at the water tower, then back to Porter. “Damn fool. Did you think you could fly?”

Anger flashed through Porter’s chest. “Yeah, Marcus, I did a swan dive off the platform.”

“We know it was an accident,” Kendall soothed, crouching to inspect Porter’s leg.

“Doesn’t matter whether it was on purpose or not,” Marcus grumbled. “Outcome is the same—you’re probably out of commission for the whole damn summer!”

“Why don’t we wait to see what a doctor says?” Kendall suggested.

“What doctor?” Marcus said with a snort. “One of us will have to take him to Atlanta. As if we didn’t have enough to do today.”

“Maybe we should call for an airlift,” Kendall suggested.

“It’s not that serious,” Porter protested. “Marcus, if you’ll let one of the workers drive me to Atlanta, I’ll find an emergency room and be back before you know it.”

Marcus gave a noncommittal grunt.

Kendall strode back to the four-wheeler and opened the storage compartment. “I brought a neoprene wrap from the first-aid station, but it’s going to be a bumpy ride on the way down.” He knelt to fasten the wrap around Porter’s ankle, boot and all, then waved for Marcus to get on the other side. When they heaved him to his feet, the flood of pain took Porter’s breath away, covering his face with a sheen of sweat.

“Think about something else,” Kendall urged.

Porter tried to smile. “I’m thinking…about…all the women…waiting…in town.”

“Marcus mentioned you saw some cars headed this way.”

“Dozens of cars,” Porter said, exhaling loudly. “All carrying…hot, young women. We’ll get down the mountain…just in time…to say hello.”

“You’re going to make a hell of an impression,” Marcus offered. “No one’s going to want a busted-up man to take care of.”

“I beg to differ,” Porter said, setting his jaw against the pain. “Women will be…lining up…to take care of me. In fact…that was my plan…all along.”

Marcus handed him a small stick. “Here, bite down on this.”

“For the pain?”

“No, so you’ll stop talking.”

Porter tried to laugh, but getting settled on the four-wheeler was more painful than he’d anticipated. Ditto for the trip down, although Kendall tried to take it easy.

By the time they rolled into the center of town, Porter was ready to be horizontal—and drugged. But the sight of cars of all makes and models pulling to a stop in front of the boardinghouse and diner and all along the narrow paved road sent a shot of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Blondes…brunettes…redheads…it was a veritable 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 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.”

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

Nikki 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.

She planted her hands against his chest and pushed hard to escape his embrace. “Mr. Armstrong, let go of me,” she said, although her voice sounded breathy and weak, even to her own ears.

“Porter!” Marcus shouted from the door. When Nikki turned to see both the older Armstrong brothers charging toward them, she realized they’d returned and witnessed the kiss. By the time the men had reached them, though, Porter had released her and his head lolled to the side. He was out cold.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Salinger,” Kendall said. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, but she was still shaken—more by her reaction to the kiss than the kiss itself. After Darren’s betrayal, she’d promised herself she’d be immune to the charms of men, yet here she was trembling like a virgin.

“My little brother has the manners of a mule,” Marcus said, his voice thick with disgust.

“It’s probably the medication,” she murmured, trying to gather herself, but not succeeding. She pressed her fingers to her mouth in an attempt to erase the imprint of Porter Armstrong’s lips on hers. Her face burned. The brothers studied her, as if they suspected she might bolt.

Indeed, she was considering it.

“How can we help you?” Kendall asked hopefully.

She touched her hand to her forehead, forcing herself to focus. “His lower leg bone is broken. You can provide some leverage so I can set it.”

With their help, she set the bone relatively quickly and confirmed its position with another X-ray. Then she bathed her patient’s leg and swollen ankle with antiseptic, and wrapped cotton strips from his instep to just below his knee. Next came wet lengths of fiberglass cloth over the cotton, which dried quickly to form the cast. She’d hoped the rote movements would allow her to distance herself from the man she was administering to, but the amazing kiss kept flashing in her mind like a stuttering synapse, and the adhesive mixture made her light-headed. She felt flustered throughout and was never so glad to be finished with a procedure.

But then she had to bathe the scrapes and scratches on his chest and arms, which required even more contact, to areas that were even more…pleasing. Porter Armstrong’s physique was lean, with long, well-developed muscles—a very nice specimen. His pectoralis major and rectus abdominis were particularly appealing, but his deltoids were noteworthy as well. It was nerve-wracking to administer to him under the scrutiny of his two concerned brothers, but at last she was satisfied he wasn’t going to be infected by whatever branches and stones he’d come into contact with during the fall. She snapped off her rubber gloves.

“He’s going to be okay?” Marcus asked.

She smiled. “As far as I can tell, although he should be monitored overnight for a fever or pain that might indicate internal bleeding. He should wake up within an hour or so,” she said, dousing her hands with sanitizing gel. “I saw the water tower driving in. He’s a very lucky man to have sustained such minor injuries from a fall like that.”

Marcus frowned. “One day our little brother is going to push his luck too far.”

Kendall elbowed Marcus, as if he didn’t want him airing family squabbles. “It’s kind of you to do this after such a long day, Dr. Salinger. You must be tired and hungry.”

“I am,” she admitted.

“The men are planning a barbecue tonight in the meadow to welcome our guests,” Marcus said. “We hope you’ll come.”

After her unsettling encounter with Porter Armstrong, she needed some time alone to assess her decision to come to Sweetness. In hindsight, she hadn’t thought through the emotional ramifications of picking up and moving across several states to literally build a practice from scratch. And from the conversation she’d overheard earlier, it seemed as if everyone in Sweetness wouldn’t be exactly welcoming of her services. She was starting to think she wasn’t ready for a fresh start—not in a place where it seemed her ego was doomed to take a beating.

“If you don’t mind,” she said, “I’m going to skip the barbecue and get settled in for the night.”

“We saved one of the nicer rooms for you,” Kendall said, his voice eager. He handed her a key with the number 225.

“Your bags have been carried up,” Marcus added.

Both of them were looking at her like hopeful little boys.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m going to freshen up, then I’ll be back to check on your brother. He seems like the type who will fight coming out from under the sedation. You should stay with him so he doesn’t hurt himself.”

“We will,” Kendall said. “Thank you, Dr. Salinger.”

“Yes, thank you, Dr. Salinger,” Marcus said, pumping her hand. “I can’t tell you how happy we are that Sweetness has a physician.”

Nikki wet her lips. “I heard some men talking earlier about a Dr. Riley?”

“Riley Bates,” Kendall said. “He’s not a doctor. He gives the men home remedies for minor ailments.”

Great. She’d be competing with a witch doctor.

“There’s no conflict,” Marcus assured her. “Everyone is glad you’re here.”

But from the brothers’ forced smiles, she got the feeling they’d also heard unhappy rumblings among the men about having a “female doctor.”

“Don’t hang my shingle just yet, gentlemen. Now that I’ve seen your town, I have some thinking to do.” Nikki picked up her doctor’s bag and trudged toward the door. Maybe she’d feel better after a long, hot shower.

Assuming this place had hot water.

This place had no hot water.

Nikki shivered under the shower head, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. After a long, sweaty day, the icy blast had felt refreshing…for about five seconds. Then the cold needles had penetrated her skin and stabbed down to her bones. She hurriedly shampooed her hair and lathered her skin, but it was far from the leisurely bathing experience she’d been looking forward to. She jumped out and wrapped herself in a towel. Still shivering, she walked out of the bathroom into the bedroom she’d been assigned to.

Admittedly, it was a beautiful room, simply decorated with a new black wooden bed and matching wardrobe, plus a red upholstered couch and two cream-colored upholstered chairs around a simple black coffee table. It was a corner room, with two large windows. The sun was on a slow descent into the western clouds, spilling pink and orange tones over a mountain range. When something akin to awe began to bleed into her chest, Nikki turned away. She didn’t want to fall in love with anything about Sweetness. Romantic sunsets did not make up for the lack of basics, like hot water and a medical facility.

And her encounter with Porter Armstrong had affected her more deeply than she wanted to acknowledge. For most of her life, she’d been overlooked as a desirable woman, but she’d found acceptance as a medical professional. She’d hoped she was coming to a place where she could start over as a physician and make a difference. Instead, she’d immediately been reminded she didn’t measure up in the dateable department.

And why was she surprised? The Armstrong brothers, after all, were hoping to attract women who wanted to settle down with their workers…and probably with the Armstrong brothers themselves. So if she decided to stay in this place, she’d have to make peace with the idea that she would be immersed in, surrounded by and inundated with besotted women and hormone-crazed men pairing up like animals headed for the Ark…and that in the midst of the chaos, she would stand alone.

She thought she was okay with the idea of throwing herself into her career and giving up the idea of meeting a man to share her life with. But upon closer inspection, Sweetness was possibly the most unfortunate choice of environment she could’ve made. Considering the comments she’d overheard from the male workers, her ambition of building her own medical practice in Sweetness might be an uphill battle.

So the only practical reason to stay would be if she thought she might be able to achieve…that other thing.

That meeting a man to share her life with thing.

Porter Armstrong’s incredible kiss taunted her, stirring forgotten urges. Nikki inadvertently licked her lips—she could still taste him, could still feel his strong fingers cupped around the nape of her neck and the warmth of his bare, muscular chest beneath her splayed hands.

Then she gave herself a mental shake. The only reason Porter Armstrong had kissed her was because she was there. The man was the exact kind of oaf she’d come here to escape!

Nikki touched her forehead, then checked her watch. She needed to get back to her patient, who most likely wouldn’t even remember the kiss that was messing with her ability to make a rational decision about staying in Sweetness, or getting out—as Southerners were fond of saying—while the getting was good.

6

Porter smiled…he was in the old swimming hole he and Marcus and Kendall had played in when they were boys. He was the best diver and the fastest swimmer. It was the one place he could out-do his older brothers, and he loved to show off. But now no matter how much he kicked, he couldn’t seem to surface. The harder he tried, the more murky the water became, and the more the sticky mud at the bottom pulled at his legs.

As frustration swelled in his chest painfully, he thrashed and clawed at the water, as afraid of embarrassing himself in front of his brothers as losing his life.

“Stop fighting it,” came Marcus’s voice, and suddenly Porter’s arms were rendered to lead. Which only made him work harder.

“Dammit, Porter, stop fighting us and open your eyes.”

As much as he hated doing anything Marcus told him to do, Porter opened his eyes, cringing against the light. He was disoriented, but slowly realized his brothers were holding him down. He grunted and strained against them, his mind reeling.

“Settle down, little brother,” Kendall soothed. “You fell off the water tower and broke your leg. Dr. Salinger put you under sedation to set the bone and apply a cast.”

Porter relaxed as the events of the afternoon flooded back to him. From the shallow angle of the sun coming through the windows, he realized dusk was approaching. He’d missed most of the day. He winced. His head was pounding and every muscle in his body ached, no doubt a result of his fall.

“Dr. Salinger?” he repeated, squinting as the serious face of a tiny, mousy woman came back to him. “Little lady doc?”

“You owe her a big thank-you,” Kendall said, helping him to a sitting position. “If not for her and her van full of supplies, we would’ve had to take you to Atlanta.”

“And you owe her an apology,” Marcus barked.

Porter gave the fiberglass cast on his left leg beneath the split in his work jeans a cursory knock. “What for?” he asked absently, still a little woozy.

“We walked in on you kissing her. She was struggling to get away,” his older brother bellowed. “Are you such a hound dog that you couldn’t keep your hands off the damn doctor?”

Porter squinted. There was a distant recollection of a very nice kiss. He grinned. “What can I say?”

Marcus’s face turned crimson. “You can say you’re sorry, you idget!”

“It was just a kiss,” Porter protested.

“It was inappropriate,” Kendall admonished.

“She’s already skittish about being the only doctor in town—with no facilities,” Marcus said. “We can’t afford to lose her because you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

Porter scoffed. “Come on, Marcus. She probably enjoyed it. From what I remember of the little lady doc, she looked like she hasn’t been kissed all that much. The woman probably has her nose stuck in a book most of the time, and sleeps with her cat.”

At the sound of a door closing, Porter swung his head around to see the topic of their conversation standing there. The woman was tiny—five feet two inches, max—with a figure as slim as a weeping willow branch in stiff khakis and a white button-up shirt. Her mousy-colored hair was falling into her eyes, still damp from a recent shower. The black medical bag she held in one hand looked like it might topple her over. In the other hand, she held a pair of crutches that were almost as tall as she was. Her pale face was free of makeup, highlighting the rings of exhaustion under her eyes. And from the bright pink tinge in her cheeks, she’d obviously heard his comment.

Remorse barbed through Porter’s chest. He opened his mouth to apologize, but she straightened and moved toward them like a miniature steamroller.

“How’s my patient?” she asked cheerfully.

“Fine,” the brothers answered in three-part harmony. Porter shot his brothers an annoyed look.

“I’m fine,” he said more forcefully.

Kendall cleared his throat meaningfully.

“Thank you,” Porter added, “for…everything.”

She gave a curt nod and handed the crutches off to Kendall. “Let’s get you on your feet, Mr. Armstrong.”

She positioned herself on one side of him and Marcus stepped on the other side.

Porter surveyed her slight frame. “No offense, little lady doc, but maybe Kendall should do this instead of you.”

Her pointed chin came up. She had green eyes—rather pretty green eyes. “I’m stronger than I look, Mr. Armstrong.”

Feeling put in his place, Porter lifted one arm around Marcus’s shoulders, and settled one arm around hers. A jolt of awareness ripped through his body at the feel of her skin beneath his, catching him off guard. She was a tiny thing, with the bone structure of a songbird. She barely came up to his armpit, but true to her word, when he eased to his feet, she bore his weight as well as his big brother. She smelled like wildflowers, fresh and clean. Her hair brushed his chin with the satiny caress of a butterfly wing. His body started to respond, but the memory of a similar reaction when she’d cut his pant leg flashed back to him. He hardened his jaw to get his body under control. Marcus was right—the woman deserved more respect. When he was standing, albeit awkwardly, Kendall grabbed the crutches and gave them to him, allowing Marcus and the doctor to step away.

But when she slipped out from under his arm and took her womanly aromas with her, Porter felt her absence acutely.

“Take a couple of steps,” she encouraged.

Maybe it was because he felt like such a heel for the comment he’d made, but he suddenly wanted to please this woman.

He shifted 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.” He frowned at Porter. “You shouldn’t humor him.”

“He’s harmless,” Porter said with a wave.

“Okay,” Kendall said. “But he’s your problem if he starts making trouble for the new doctor.”

“I got it covered—the doctor, too. Consider that employment contract signed.”

“Don’t get too cocky,” Marcus said. “This woman seems immune to those boyish charms of yours.”

Porter grinned. “I’ll grow on her.”

Kendall frowned. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

Marcus pointed to Porter’s cast. “He means more stupid.”

As his brothers walked out, a couple of cute girls walked by and gave Porter coy waves before moving on.

Porter smiled. His broken leg gave him the excuse to visit the doctor, which would put him in proximity to all the other single women. And once he convinced the little lady doc to stay, he’d get the family land.

Who was the stupid one?

7

Nikki maintained her composure on the trek back to her room by concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. But Porter Armstrong’s stinging remark reverberated in her head, resurrecting old insecurities and self-doubt her ex-fiancé’s betrayal had reinforced.

It hurt to be rejected, darn it.

The women were settling into the rambling boardinghouse. Smiling faces passed by and happy feet skipped up and down the stairs. Chatter filled every corner, billowed by bursts of laughter and squeals of delight. But the merriment grated on Nikki’s raw nerves—everyone seemed so happy to be here…and she’d never felt more alone.

“Dr. Salinger,” called a shrill voice behind her. “Dr. Salinger!”

Rachel Hutchins. Nikki turned and forced a smile up at the towering blonde. “Yes?”

Rachel was holding her pug, Nigel. The wrinkly dark-faced pooch looked uncomfortable, as if he were being squeezed. “How is Porter?” the woman asked, her doe eyes welling with concern.

Nikki pursed her mouth. “He’ll live. It’s only a broken leg.”

“Will he be bedridden?” Rachel looked hopeful.

“Not unless he wants to be,” Nikki chirped. “When I left him, he was getting around pretty well on crutches.” Nikki turned to go, but Rachel refused to be mollified.

“Is he in a lot of pain?”

She turned back, her ire flaring. “You’ll have to ask him.”

“Oh, I will,” Rachel promised in a singsongy voice. “He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”

Exasperated, Nikki lifted her hands. “I didn’t notice.”

Rachel tilted her head. “Really? Gosh, Dr. Salinger, your boyfriend back in Broadway did a horrible, lowdown thing to toss you aside for a stripper, but you shouldn’t let it sour you on men altogether.”

Nikki bit down on the inside of her cheek. “Fiancé.”

“Pardon me?”

“He was my fiancé,” Nikki said evenly.

“Ouch—even worse.”

Nikki closed her eyes, but when she opened them, the woman and dog were still there. “I’m tired, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to my room.” She turned and started climbing the stairs. Her feet felt like bricks.

“The men are having a barbecue to welcome us to Sweetness,” Rachel said behind her.

“I think I’ll pass,” Nikki replied over her shoulder.

“Do you suppose Porter will need my help getting there?”

Nikki rolled her eyes, but didn’t turn back. “Sounds like a plan.” At the top of the stairs, she veered toward her room at the end of the hall.

“Dr. Salinger?”

Nikki sighed, then turned back and leaned on the railing. “Yes, Rachel?”

“Do you like it here?”

Surprisingly, the woman seemed pensive, as if Nikki’s response actually mattered. The dog yelped, and Rachel loosened her grip.

“I…don’t know yet.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Nikki turned back toward her room and pressed her lips together. It looked as if Rachel and Porter Armstrong would be the first couple to pair off. Granted, they did seem suited to each other in terms of physical beauty…and tact.

She wished them well.

As Nikki passed other rooms, she was appalled to find most of the doors standing open. Inside, women were sprawled on the beds and floors, painting toenails and doing each other’s hair. Had everyone regressed to college dorm behavior?

“Hey, Dr. Salinger,” called Traci Miles, one of the women who’d ridden down in the van with Nikki. She was smearing something gooey on a seated woman’s eyebrow. “Want me to wax your brows?” Traci pressed a white strip of cloth to the goo, then ripped it off. The woman in the chair grimaced in pain.

“Um…no, thanks,” Nikki said. All the way down the hall came offers for hair highlighting, makeup air-brushing and manicures. She declined as graciously as she could, considering how alien all that girly stuff was to her. She self-consciously touched her never-plucked eyebrows and bare face and curled under her stubby fingernails. She was the only woman in the building with a medical degree…so why did she feel lacking?

By the time Nikki closed the door to her own room and leaned against it, she had made a decision.

She was leaving Sweetness.

She’d wait until everyone had left for the barbecue, then make her escape to avoid any drama. She’d leave a note for the Armstrong brothers, and by the time anyone noticed she was gone—probably tomorrow sometime—she’d be back in Broadway. She wondered if she could get her old job back at the family medical practice…and if the apartment she’d rented after moving out of Darren’s house was still available.

Since she was only a few hours from Atlanta, Nikki toyed with the idea of driving there to take her chances in the sprawling metropolis. But she still had some friends in Broadway, like Amy Bradshaw, a yoga partner and Southern girl whom Nikki had hoped would come with them to Sweetness. Amy hadn’t even considered leaving her civil engineering job to relocate, but had asked Nikki to stay in touch.

On impulse, Nikki went to her purse and rummaged for her cell phone to call Amy—maybe she would have some words of advice, something wise and…Southern that would help Nikki see things from a different perspective.

But at the “No Service” message on her phone screen, Nikki dropped her head and released a strangled cry of frustration. The fact that she couldn’t reach anyone in the outside world was a sure sign she needed to leave this no-cow town, pronto.

Thank goodness she hadn’t fully unpacked yet, she thought as she moved to the one open suitcase on her bed. She refolded the clothes she’d worn earlier and placed them on top, then began to gather the toiletries she’d used. Her movements were furtive, which was ridiculous, she realized. It wasn’t as if she was doing anything wrong. In fact, she was correcting a mistake. Coming here made her realize how good she’d had it in Broadway. And if she went back, no one could say Darren Rocha’s public disposal of her had humiliated her so much she’d had to leave.

Even though it was true.

She was so deep in thought, a knock startled her. With her heart thumping, Nikki made her way to the door and, in deference to her nearly repacked suitcase on the bed, opened it only a crack. She didn’t want to tip off any of the women that she was leaving.

Only it wasn’t a woman on the other side.

“Hi,” Porter Armstrong said with a pained smile. His cobalt-blue eyes were a little hazy, and he was leaning heavily on his crutches. He had, she noticed, found a shirt—a pale blue T-shirt that stretched agreeably across his biceps and shoulders.

Nikki’s pulse picked up. “Is something wrong, Mr. Armstrong?”

“Nope. I came to talk to you. Can I—er, may I come in?”

She shifted uncomfortably in the three-inch wide opening, trying to shield the suitcase from his view. “I’d rather you didn’t. Did you come up the stairs on your crutches?”

“Thought it would be good practice.” Then he made a rueful noise. “Guess I didn’t realize how much it would take out of me.”

Nikki felt contrite, then opened the door and waved him inside. But she left the door open as he settled himself, of all places, on her bed next to her suitcase.

An acrid aroma filtered into her lungs. “What’s that smell?”

“Oh.” He grinned. “It’s wintergreen oil. Doc Riley says it’s good for swelling and pain.”

After she’d given him legitimate medical care, he’d sought a second opinion from the resident aromatherapist? Nikki set her jaw. “So are the prescription medications I gave you.”

“I know, but the oil can’t hurt, can it?”

Nikki dabbed at the corners of her watering eyes. “Only the sensibilities of the people who have to be around you.”

His eyes danced. “I grow on people, kind of like this smell.”

Beyond frustrated by his mere presence, Nikki folded her arms. “What’s on your mind, Mr. Armstrong?”

He surveyed the full suitcase on her bed, then took in the one sitting next to her empty closet. “Going somewhere?”

She bristled. “I just haven’t unpacked yet. I’ve been busy, if you recall.”

He nodded. “Sorry about that. I really appreciate you patching me up, little lady doc.”

“I took an oath to ‘patch people up.’ You didn’t have to come all the way up here to thank me, Mr. Armstrong.”

He was glancing all around. “Nice room. Do you like it?”

She wet her lips. “Yes.”

“Any complaints?”

“Hot water would be nice.”

He looked offended. “There should be plenty of hot water.”

“Well, there wasn’t a drop when I took a shower.”

He pushed to his feet and hobbled to the bathroom on his crutches. “Are you sure? Did you turn the knob to the left?”

Nikki stuck her tongue into her cheek as he invaded what was supposed to be a private space. “You mean toward the big red ‘H’? Yes, I figured that one out.”

But he apparently didn’t believe her because he opened the glass shower door, reached in and turned on the water, twisting the knob all the way to the left. He leaned on one crutch, and stuck his large hand under the stream. Unbidden, Nikki’s thoughts went to being naked in the shower with this man. She gave herself a mental shake, and congratulated herself for making the decision to leave. The last thing she needed was a crush on a gorgeous man who made her feel bad about herself.

His frown deepened. “I calculated carefully for how many and the right size of water heaters to install. Up to two women in a room times ten gallons of water.”

“Ten gallons of water?” she asked, confused.

He nodded, then gestured to the fixtures. “We installed low-flow shower heads that deliver about eight gallons of water for a five-minute shower. I used ten gallons in the calculations to make sure there would be enough hot water for a hundred showers in a short period of time.”

He looked so proud of himself Nikki almost hated to burst his bubble. But when she could no longer hold it in, she laughed into her hand.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“I don’t know any woman who takes a five-minute shower.”

“Really?” He looked panicked, and in the space of a few seconds, Nikki realized how clueless this ladies’ man was about ladies. Obviously he had no sisters and had never been married, had never cohabitated with a girlfriend…and apparently, had never even taken a shower with a woman.

“Really,” she said, unable to hide her amusement.

He scratched his head. “This isn’t good.”

Nikki almost felt sorry for him…but didn’t. “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” She didn’t add she wouldn’t be around to observe the outcome. Nikki walked back to the main room and stood next to the open door, hoping he would follow. He did, slowly, navigating around the woven throw rugs on the bare wood floors. Every time he swung his body forward on the crutches, the thick muscles in his arms contracted.

Nikki had to avert her gaze.

He stopped next to her bed and leaned over, then used the rubber tip of his crutch to lift the muslin bed skirt. “Is your pussycat hiding?” he asked, craning his neck.

Nikki crossed her arms. “Goodbye, Mr. Armstrong.”

The hallway was filled with the sounds of the women leaving their rooms, presumably for the barbecue. Their voices were high-pitched, punctuated with giggles and the click-clack of sandals and high heels.

Porter glanced toward the hallway, then back to her with those piercing blue eyes. “Actually, doc, I came to ask if you’d walk down to the barbecue with me. I’m sorry for the things I said earlier—it was a bad joke. I’m really not such a terrible guy once you get to know me.”

Nikki hesitated, allowing her imagination to indulge in the fantasy of spending the evening “getting to know” Porter Armstrong. Any red-blooded woman would relish being in the company of this big, good-looking Southern boy for a few hours, and she was human. And the intensity of his kiss still teased her mouth like a mischievous shadow. But warning bells sounded in her head. That kiss hadn’t been intended for her—her mouth had simply been within reach. And she’d heard the man’s unflattering opinion of her when he thought she wasn’t listening. Her relationship with Darren had taught her to beware of charming kisses and the men attached to them…and Porter Armstrong had confirmed that lesson.

Reminded of her resolve to leave, Nikki lifted her chin. “No, thank you.”

Porter’s smile fell. He seemed to be at loose ends, obviously unaccustomed to being turned down, especially—she speculated—by someone who looked like her. It was probably more common for women to melt into a puddle of ooze at his feet. “Oh…okay.”

Suddenly Rachel Hutchins appeared in the doorway, with Nigel at her feet at the end of a pink leash. The woman was stunningly sexy in a short denim skirt and tight yellow T-shirt, her golden hair flowing around her shoulders. “I thought I heard your voice, Porter. What are you doing up here?” Her voice had a suspicious lilt. Even Nigel glanced back and forth between Porter and Nikki.

“Mr. Armstrong was checking the hot water in my bathroom,” Nikki said quickly.

“Oh, it’s perfect in my room,” Rachel gushed. “I took the longest, hottest shower. It was amazing.”

Porter seemed mesmerized. And since even Nikki was visualizing Rachel standing naked under a spray of steaming water, she could only imagine where his mind had gone.

“Rachel,” Nikki said brightly to interrupt the uncomfortable moment, “Mr. Armstrong is heading to the barbecue—maybe you could walk with him to make sure he doesn’t fall?”

Rachel beamed. “I’d be happy to.”

Porter took one swinging step forward, then looked back to Nikki, as if he suddenly remembered she was there. “Come with us, doc.”

“Maybe later,” she lied, shutting the door to move him along. He looked as if he might protest, but she succeeded in shepherding him into the hall and closed the door on the happy couple. Nikki stood with her ear to the door and listened until the thump, thump of his crutches meeting the floor faded. Rachel’s tinkling laughter reached back and curled under the door, mocking Nikki. I’m just like you…only prettier.

Nikki indulged a barb of envy, then sat down and penned a note to the Armstrong brothers saying she’d decided Sweetness wasn’t for her after all, and propped it on the table. When silence settled over the house, she gathered both pieces of luggage, opened the bedroom door and stuck out her head to make sure all was quiet. When she was convinced she was alone in the house, she carried her suitcases into the hall, closed the door and stole downstairs.

Moving stealthily, Nikki exited through the front door, crossed the shadowed porch and hurried in the direction of her extended van.

Darkness was settling quickly. A light high on a pole in front of the boardinghouse illuminated fluttering moths and guided her footsteps to the side of the road. Then she picked her way down the row of vehicles to her van. Insects chanted in rounds, the noises swelling, then falling away to build again. The unbearable heat of the summer day had given way to a breezy evening. She attributed the wide swing in the temperature to their altitude.

She swallowed hard at the thought of descending the mountain road with nothing more than her headlights and the glow of the three-quarter moon to guide her. Maybe she should wait until morning….

Across the road and beyond a tree line, voices, music and the radiance of a fire indicated the barbecue was getting underway. The good-time sounds pulled at her, but the suitcases in her hands propelled her forward. If she waited until morning, there would be confrontations, explanations, excuses…drama she didn’t want or need.

Especially when it came to a certain pair of cobalt-blue eyes.

After loading her suitcases in the back, Nikki climbed into the driver’s seat that was uncomfortably warm from the build-up of the day’s heat. She zoomed down the window to let the stale air escape.

In the side mirror, the amazing watercolor sunset was melting onto a distant mountain range. Nikki paused a few seconds to drink in the matchless scenery. If this town ever took root, it would blossom in the most glorious of surroundings.

Then, nursing a tiny pang of regret, she started the engine, turned the van around and pulled away.

8

From a rocking chair in the shadows of the porch, Porter observed Dr. Salinger pulling away in her long van. Damn it, Marcus and Kendall had been right about her hightailing it back north at the first chance. Sneaking out when everyone was preoccupied, without so much as a “nice to know you.”

Truth be known, his feelings were a little hurt.

Porter pulled at his chin and waited, counting off the seconds the way he and his brothers used to do when they were little, trying to figure out how far away storms were by measuring the time lapse between a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder. One Mississippi…two Mississippi…three Mississippi…

The van’s brake lights came on before four Mississippi, then the engine sputtered and died.

Porter positioned his crutches and pushed to his feet. His leg was aching from crawling under the van to disconnect the fuel pump, but it was a quick way to safely disable the vehicle.

Marcus had charged him with keeping the little lady doc here. He hadn’t specified the methods had to be aboveboard.

The van slammed into Park, and the sound of the engine trying to crank floated on the evening breeze. By the time Porter reached the driver’s door, Dr. Salinger was banging on the steering wheel and cursing like a longshoreman.

“What’s up, doc?”

She startled and screamed, then turned her head to look at him through the open window. “You scared me to death!”

He grinned. “Sorry about that. Going some where?”

She opened her mouth, then seemed to cast about for a plausible explanation. “I…was just…exploring.”

He craned his neck to look over her shoulder into the backseat. “With your suitcases?”

She looked away, then back, and lifted her hands. “Okay, you got me. I was leaving.”

“I guess we didn’t make a very good first impression,” he conceded. He was struck by the perfection of her profile in the low lighting. The woman had exquisite bone structure. She was really quite pretty…not sexy by any stretch of the imagination, but pretty.

“I shouldn’t have come here in the first place,” she said quietly. “I…I don’t belong here.”

No surprise, he thought, Sweetness wasn’t good enough for her and her medical degree. “So you’re going back home?”

Her small hands tightened on the wheel. “If I can get out of here. I don’t know what’s wrong with the van.” She peered at the dashboard. “The gas tank is almost full and I bought a new battery a couple of weeks ago.”

“Let me take a look under the hood,” Porter offered magnanimously. “Do you have a flashlight?”

She rummaged in the glove compartment and came up with one. “Can I help?”

“Uh, no. Stay inside in case I need you to turn the key.”

He hobbled to the front of the vehicle, then made a big production of lifting the hood and putting the hood’s prop arm in place. He pinged the light around, pretending to inspect various pieces and parts, but craned in the direction of the barbecue site with longing. The voices and music were louder, beckoning. Damn, all those hot, single women were being sociable and he was stuck trying to convince the one woman who wanted to leave Sweetness to stay.

“Try turning it over now,” he called idly.

She did, but of course, deprived of fuel, the engine didn’t catch.

He tapped the flashlight on an engine support, then called, “Again.”

She turned over the ignition but again, nada.

After a respectable pause, he slammed down the hood and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Sorry. Looks like you’re stuck for a while.”

She thrust her head out the window. “What’s wrong?”

He shrugged, careful not to lie…too much. “Could be a lot of things. Hard to say in the dark. Best to have a mechanic take a look in the morning.”

Her jaw dropped. “In the morning?”

“Everyone is at the barbecue,” he said, jerking his thumb over his back toward the commotion through the trees. “Except us.”

She frowned. “I thought you were going with Rachel.”

As if he needed to be reminded that he’d had to cut the leggy blonde loose. “My ankle was hurting, so I told her to go on ahead. I was resting on the porch when I saw you sneaking out.”

“Did you take the pain pills I gave you?”

“Sure did.”

She climbed out and slammed the door. “I wasn’t sneaking out.”

“Do you need help with your suitcases?”

“You’re on crutches,” she reminded him, then opened the back door and yanked out her luggage. “Is it safe to leave my van sitting in the middle of the road?”

“It’s not like we have a lot of traffic.”

But she didn’t seem amused as she turned and headed back to the boardinghouse.

“I’ll have a couple of the guys come back and roll it to the shoulder,” he promised as he hurried to keep up with her. She marched into the house and down the long hallway. For such a small woman, she was sure man-handling those suitcases. At the bottom of the stairs, she whirled around.

“Why are you following me?”

He drew back. “Since you’re staying until morning, I thought we’d go to the barbecue together.”

“You should be in bed.”

Porter’s mouth went dry because standing this close to the little lady doc was messing with his senses. The scent of the lemony soap she used filtered into his lungs. Why was he suddenly thinking about her lithe body straddling his on a big, soft bed? Porter shifted on his crutches as a dozen responses to her comment came to mind, innuendos that would’ve entertained or tempted most women. But he was already in trouble for pushing things too far with this one, and he couldn’t afford to nudge her over the edge.

“I don’t want to miss the party,” he said finally, then grinned. “But I’d feel better if I were under medical supervision.”

“I told you I don’t care to go!”

When her eyes filled unexpectedly with tears, Porter almost bolted. Tears were beyond even his skillset. The reasons men cried could be counted on one hand: a Superbowl win, a Superbowl loss, too much hot sauce and losing a favorite spinner bait. The reasons women cried were limitless and mysterious, running the gamut from hormones to clearance sales. He was at a loss.

Besides, he was a modern guy—the woman had a right to do whatever she pleased. Homestead or no homestead, who was he to try to change her mind? After she stomped upstairs to spend the evening alone, he’d go outside and reconnect her fuel pump. She could leave in the morning as planned and forget all about Sweetness. They’d find another doctor.

But, damn…those tears. They made her eyes glisten like huge emeralds against her pale skin. She looked small and vulnerable standing there with her little chin stuck in the air. Unbidden, protective instincts welled in his chest.

And his brothers’ words came back to him. From the broken leg that needed tending to the stolen kiss to the cold-water shower, he hadn’t exactly been the Welcome Wagon. He couldn’t be sure of the exact cause of her tears, and he was limited in his remedies, but there was one thing that always made men feel better.

“You should have something to eat,” he announced.

On cue, her stomach howled like a wild animal.

Taking advantage of the opening, he rushed to add, “There’s a guy on our crew from Memphis who makes the best barbecue you ever tasted.” She didn’t react, but she didn’t flee, so he went for the close. “Besides, I’m sure my brothers would like to say goodbye.”

She looked away, then back, wavering. Porter gave her a little smile of encouragement. Her chin dipped. “Okay.” She sounded utterly defeated. “Give me a few minutes to stow my suitcases in my room, and I’ll be back down.”

Feeling frustrated because he couldn’t help her, and for other reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on, Porter watched as Dr. Salinger struggled to carry her luggage up the stairs. Her shoulders drooped and her feet dragged. Porter frowned. Usually women who were going to spend the evening with him acted a little happier about it.

He exhaled loudly. Entertaining the mousy little lady doc all evening was going to be a major bummer.

Then those amazing green eyes flashed into his head and Porter pursed his mouth.

He reckoned he could take one for the Armstrong team.

9

Nikki pushed open the door to the corner room she’d left only minutes before, felt for the overhead light switch and flipped it on, then carried in her suitcases and set them down.

A wave of defeat washed over her. Academically, she knew she wasn’t stranded here forever, that she could leave as soon as her van was repaired. But emotionally, she felt as if she was being thwarted at every turn. And that cosmically, she was being punished for doing something so wildly out of character as leaving the family practice in Broadway and coming to a Southern town in the middle of nowhere with the fantasy of starting over.

She pressed her palms to her temples and shook her head. Coming here was easily the dumbest thing she’d ever done. It served her right to be stuck.

Out of nowhere came her grandmother’s words of advice that things would look better in the morning. Considering the setting, it wasn’t so unusual she’d think of her Grammy, who had raised her family in a dense auto manufacturing city in Michigan, but who had spent her own childhood in a small town in Tennessee. Grammy had been full of commonsense sayings with country roots. For the first time, Nikki wondered if some part of her had been attracted to the idea of coming here because her grandmother had made rural life sound so idyllic.

It suddenly occurred to her that Grammy might have embellished the truth a bit for the sake of her only grandchild.

Nikki walked into the bathroom to splash her face with cold water—the one thing that Sweetness had plenty of. She patted her skin dry with a hand towel, then peered at her face. Pale, pale, pale, with bluish circles under her eyes and splotches of red on her cheeks. But she didn’t have time to do anything about it…not that her inept skills with makeup would make a difference. The best she could do was run a brush through her fine hair to fluff it a bit. Then she chastised herself.

It wasn’t as if this was a date.

That…thing…that had sprung up between her and Porter Armstrong earlier, that thick, palpable pressure hanging in the air after she’d made the comment that he should be in bed…it hadn’t been sexual tension. It couldn’t have been. The more likely explanation was…humidity.

That was it—she simply wasn’t used to the barometric pressure at this altitude.

And she had agreed to accompany Porter Armstrong to the barbecue simply because the irreverent man needed to be monitored over the next several hours in case he developed complications from his fall.

Her stomach growled.

And because she was famished.

She retraced her steps to the stairs and ignored the little jump in her pulse at the sight of Porter Armstrong waiting for her. The man was ridiculously handsome, and she knew when she was out of her league. But she was only going to be in Sweetness, Georgia, for a few more hours, and there were worse ways to spend it than on the arm of a good-looking man, even if he’d only extended the invitation out of…

Nikki frowned. Why had he extended the invitation?

He smiled and, if possible, grew even more handsome.

The reason didn’t matter, she told herself as she walked downstairs. She could pretend over the next few hours that he saw something in her no other man had ever seen. Sweetness owed her a fantasy evening.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” she said.

Porter was grateful the weather was holding. “Doc” Riley had announced all week that his forecasting bunions were hurting, which meant rain was on the way. But the last thing the Armstrongs wanted was for their guests to see the ugly mud hole this place turned into when driving rain met bare red clay.

He was aware of the small woman walking next to him, and tried to imagine what this place looked like through her eyes. It was a glorious Southern night, steeped with the scent of freshly mowed grass and the hum of insects.

Dr. Salinger sneezed violently, then smacked at something on her neck.

He winced. Maybe it wasn’t so glorious if you were allergic to freshly mowed grass and attracted mosquitoes. “God bless you.” He stopped and balanced himself to fish a clean handkerchief from his back pocket, then handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said, giving her nose a wipe. “Why do Southerners say that?”

“Say what?”

“‘God bless you’ after someone sneezes.”

He laughed. “Is that a Southern thing?” Then he shrugged. “I never thought about it. Didn’t mean to offend.”

“You didn’t offend me. I just think it’s curious how different people are, and how different the customs are in different parts of the country.”

She sounded so clinical, as if she were conducting a study. Little lady doc sounded…lonely. “Do you have family back in Broadway?”

“No.”

“Another part of the country?”

“No.”

An orphan. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she murmured. “I was an only child. My father passed away when I was very young, and my mother died when I was in high school. But I was loved.”

Loved. Past tense. Porter’s chest tightened. And she’d pulled herself through college and medical school—impressive. “As much as my brothers and I butt heads, I couldn’t imagine a world without them in it.”

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