Baby, Drive South. Stephanie BondЧитать онлайн книгу.
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