Baby, Drive South Read online

  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

  Also by Stephanie Bond

  6 KILLER BODIES

  5 BODIES TO DIE FOR

  4 BODIES AND A FUNERAL

  BODY MOVERS: 3 MEN AND A BODY

  BODY MOVERS: 2 BODIES FOR THE PRICE OF 1

  BODY MOVERS

  Look for Stephanie Bond’s next novel

  BABY, COME HOME

  available July 2011

  STEPHANIE

  BOND

  BABY, DRIVE SOUTH

  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 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  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.”r />
  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.