Baby, Drive South Page 14

  “I don’t know,” Porter said. “If you ask me, he’s been acting strange since the women got here.”

  “Has he developed an attachment to any of them?”

  Porter couldn’t help but notice that Marcus referred to the women as if they were aliens. “Not that I’ve seen. In fact, it’s as if he’s gone out of his way to make himself scarce.”

  Marcus stared after Kendall, then scratched his head. “Funny, because I only remember him being distracted and irritable one other time in his life.”

  Porter made a rueful noise. “I know. When I razzed him the other day about Amy leaving town, maybe it stirred up bad memories.”

  “You think? That’s been, what—ten years?”

  “More like twelve,” Porter said. “But you know how serious Kendall is. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still holding a torch for her. Which is why you shouldn’t have come down on him like you did.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on, Marcus. You know Kendall would never do anything foolhardy. It’s just not in his nature.”

  “I know. That’s your role.”

  “Nice,” Porter said drily. “All I’m saying is if Kendall thought it was worth spending money on all that stuff, then we should trust him.”

  Marcus’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen. “It’s Mother.”

  Porter winced. “She doesn’t know about my leg…or that Kendall went to Atlanta and didn’t stop to see her.”

  Marcus frowned. “Anything else we’re keeping from her?”

  “She doesn’t know I was the one who broke her blue vase when I was fourteen and glued it back together.”

  Marcus punched a button and set his phone on the desk. “Hi, Mom. Porter’s here with me.”

  “Oh, good.” Emily Armstrong’s lilting voice floated into the room. “Hello, Porter.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “How are things, boys?”

  “Bumping along,” Marcus said.

  “Fine and dandy,” Porter said.

  “Where’s Kendall?”

  “Working,” they said in unison…too quickly?

  “Is he all right? The last time we talked, he didn’t sound like himself.”

  Porter and Marcus glanced at each other.

  “He’s fine, Mom,” Marcus said. “We’re just busy, that’s all. How are you?”

  “Missing my boys. What does a mother have to do to get a visit from one of her three sons?”

  “We’ll come soon,” Marcus promised.

  “That’s what you always say. Porter, I had a dream about you last night, that you were hurt…or something was broken.”

  He shook his head. The woman’s intuition was uncanny.

  “He’s fine, Mom,” Marcus answered. “He’s just been wanting to tell you he’s the one who broke your blue vase when he was fourteen and glued it back together.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Porter mouthed.

  “Oh, I knew that,” their mother sang. “How’s the town coming along? Kendall told me a caravan of women arrived from Michigan.”

  “Yeah,” Marcus said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “That’s why we’ve been so busy.”

  “Any love matches for my boys?”

  “No,” Marcus and Porter said in unison.

  Too quickly? Porter wondered again. “But we have a doctor now,” he offered. “And we’re building a clinic.”

  “It’s good to know I won’t have to worry about a doctor when I move back to Sweetness,” she said. “I can’t wait until that day comes.”

  Porter waited for Marcus to say something, but when the silence stretched on, he said, “We’re looking forward to that day, too, Mom.”

  “I’ll let you boys get back to work. I love you.”

  “We love you, too,” they chorused, then Marcus disconnected the call.

  Porter reached for his crutches and pushed to his feet. “I should get going. I have some hot water heater issues to sort out, and I promised Kendall I’d oversee the staking of the colossal garden the women are so gung-ho to plant.”

  “Porter?”

  He looked back.

  Marcus jammed his fingers into his hair, then sat on the edge of the desk. “I’m starting to wonder if we can pull this off.”

  Porter was dumbstruck. Marcus was asking for reassurance from him? He struggled for words. “Of course we can. We’ll rebuild this town and bring Mother back, just like we promised.”

  “That day seems so far away.”

  Porter cast about for an analogy they could both relate to. “It’s like when we were deployed. You can’t get bogged down thinking about the war—you just have to take it one battle at a time.”

  Porter waited for Marcus to tell him he was full of crap or make some other dismissive big-brother remark.

  “You’re right,” Marcus conceded. “The Armstrongs have never backed down from a challenge. We’ll figure this out.” Then he straightened and nodded to Porter’s cast. “How’s the leg?”

  “It’s not slowing me down…too much.”

  “I noticed that blonde Rachel giving you the eye. Anything happening there?”

  Porter felt compelled to defend his reputation as a playboy, and wasn’t about to admit that he was more interested in getting a real kiss from the little lady doc. “Maybe. I’m keeping my options open. How about you?”

  Marcus scoffed. “I’m not looking for a woman.”

  “Famous last words,” Porter said with a grin, then left the office. But when he got outside, he had a knot in his gut.

  It was unsettling to see Marcus unsure of himself, no matter how fleeting. Porter hadn’t realized, until this moment, how much he relied on his big brother as a life compass, especially since their father had passed away. Marcus carried a mountain of responsibility on his shoulders. They were talking about building an infrastructure and economy that could make or break future generations.

  Porter swallowed hard. For months now, the reconstruction had consumed his waking hours, but day-today tasks had distracted him from the big picture of what they were trying to achieve. When considered in its entirety, the mission of rebuilding an entire town was…

  Daunting.

  He wouldn’t have dreamed of attempting it without his brothers. Knowing that Marcus felt the same way bolstered his confidence and worried him at the same time. He suddenly felt the mantle of obligation settle around his own shoulders. Maybe the stress of it all was getting to Kendall, too.

  Porter rode one of the four-wheelers to the boardinghouse to consult with the plumbers who were reassessing the hot water system. Unfortunately, there were no short-term solutions. Hot water would continue to be scarce, which he knew didn’t help their case when it came to convincing Nikki to stay. He made his way to the room that had been turned into Nikki’s temporary office and noticed, with a cringe, that four of his men were sitting in the chairs lined up in the hallway.

  “Why are each of you here?” he asked.

  “Razor burn.”

  “Hammer toe.”

  “Backache.”

  “Baldness.”

  Porter sighed, pulled out his wallet, and started peeling off bills. “Here’s twenty bucks. Get back to work. And spread the word that my offer for paid time off to see the doc has expired. Don’t come unless you’re bleeding or something is falling off, got it?”

  The men took the money and left. Porter dropped into one of the chairs, and scratched at the skin under his cast. He’d had to mutilate most of his work pants, cutting off the left leg at the knee to accommodate the cast. His ankle still throbbed at times. And it itched like a sonofabitch. He pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and stuck it under the cast to try to get some relief. He moved it back and forth, but it fell short of the area that was driving him crazy. And when he pulled out the pen, the cap didn’t come back out.

  “Shit.”

  The door opened and Kendall stood there with Nikki. She looked so…competent in that lab coat, it wa
s sexy as hell. Kendall gave him a suspicious look. “What are you doing here?”

  “Besides paying off my patients,” Nikki added drily.

  He noticed her eyes were red-rimmed—still suffering from allergies…or crying over her cheating fiancé?

  “I, uh…came to see if the doctor could give me some lotion or something for the itching,” he improvised to Kendall. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to say I’m sorry to Dr. Salinger for dropping the ball on bringing back the fuel pump for her van,” Kendall said pointedly. “And to say how grateful we are that she’s agreed to prepare the RHC application.”

  “I explained I had nothing better to do until my van is repaired,” Nikki said, gesturing to her empty “waiting room.”

  “What about me and my itch?” Porter asked hopefully.

  “I do have something for that,” she admitted. “Excuse me.”

  She disappeared from view. Kendall frowned and whispered, “Marcus said for you to stay away from her.”

  “I don’t listen to everything Marcus says,” Porter whispered back.

  Kendall lifted an eyebrow.

  “But don’t tell him,” Porter added.

  “I think you have a thing for Dr. Salinger,” Kendall whispered.

  “That’s crazy,” Porter whispered back.

  Nikki reappeared at the door. “This should work.” She handed him a wire clothes hanger, then sniffed the air. “You might also want to lay off the wintergreen oil—you could be allergic.” She gave them both a flat smile. “I’ll let you know when the RHC application is done, and I trust you’ll keep me posted on my van?”

  “Sure thing,” he mumbled.

  “Good day, gentlemen.” She closed the door and all the joy went out of the room.

  Kendall looked at him. “It’s a good thing you don’t have a thing for her…because I think she kind of hates you.”

  “Shut up,” Porter muttered.

  Kendall clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. You don’t have time for courtin’, little brother. You have a garden to plant, a media room to put together and a clinic to finish…by the end of the week. Let’s go.”

  19

  Nikki sneezed violently and bit back a curse. Despite her effort to stay inside with the windows closed, her allergies had only worsened as the week wore on. Whatever allergen was in the air, it had permeated the house and her body, and was impervious to nasal washes and antihistamines. It was embarrassing when she couldn’t even cure herself.

  The best thing about being holed up in her office the last few days was that she didn’t have to interact with Porter.

  Nikki frowned.

  And the worst thing about being holed up in her office the last few days was that she didn’t have to interact with Porter.

  She wiped her watery eyes and blew her nose, then tossed the crumpled tissue in the trash on top of a mound of others. Because her head was foggy, she’d made slow progress on the application for the RHC, but was nearing the end. With no prepaid male patients in her waiting room, her foot traffic had been curtailed to taking care of the women’s needs—mostly insect bites and migraines.

  And the ever present allergies.

  She sneezed again and moaned at the pressure on her raw sinuses. The rumbling sound of big trucks arriving and voices raised outside caught her attention. She pushed to her feet and looked out the window. Two flatbed eighteen-wheelers carrying what looked like shrink-wrapped buildings crawled past the boardinghouse. Nikki smiled and her heart beat faster. The modular sections for her clinic had arrived.

  Then she caught herself—it wasn’t her clinic. There was no reason to get excited about a building going up in a place she was going to leave. Porter drove by on a four-wheeler, escorting the trucks to their destination. Unbidden, her pulse picked up again. She straightened and stepped away from the window, feeling thoroughly miserable. She needed to get away from this place.

  Get away from that man.

  She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose, then rummaged in her desk drawer for more antihistamine.

  A knock on her door was a welcome distraction— Susan, no doubt, who was probably finished sorting and pricing the list of supplies Nikki had assembled for the clinic. After that, she had no other tasks to give the woman.

  “Come in,” Nikki called.

  The door opened and Nikki blinked. “Doc” Riley Bates stood there with a smug smile on his grizzled face. His ripe body odor permeated even her swollen nasal cavities. “Hiya, doc.”

  “Hello,” she said, wary. “How can I help you, Mr. Bates?”

  “I came to help you,” he said, nodding to her trash can overflowing with tissues. He walked to her desk, then reached inside a pocket on his cargo work pants and withdrew a plastic baggie full of some dark substance. He extended it to her and when she hesitated, he shook the bag. “Take it, it’s homemade licorice.”

  Confused, she took the bag, studying the strips of dark rubbery candy inside.

  “It’s the genuine article,” he said. “Made from licorice root, not like the mass-produced packaged stuff that gets passed off as licorice.” He grinned. “It’s for your allergies. I noticed the other day they were getting the best of you.”

  She stiffened. “I’m sure they will pass.”

  “Sure they will. But they’ll get worse before they get better, which will be the first hard freeze, along about November.”

  His grin irked her. “Thank you, Mr. Bates, but I’m treating my allergies with proven medication.”

  “If it’s proven, why ain’t it working?”

  She tucked her tongue firmly into her cheek.

  “The licorice will help,” he insisted, “and it tastes pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

  “Thank you,” she said, setting it on the far corner of her desk.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, although the tone of his voice said he knew she had no intention of trying his home remedy. He tipped the bill of his cap, then backed out of her office and closed the door.

  Nikki managed to stifle a sneeze until the door closed, then erupted into a tissue three times in a row before dropping back into her chair. She frowned at the bag of candy, then picked it up between two fingers and dropped it into a bottom desk drawer.

  Another knock sounded. Nikki sighed, hoping the self-proclaimed medicine man hadn’t returned, or one of Porter’s patients-for-hire.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened and Molly McIntyre stood there, shoulders back, her square face stoic. “Is this a bad time, Dr. Salinger?”

  “No,” Nikki said. “Please come in. What can I do for you, Ms. McIntyre?”

  “Call me Molly.” She closed the door, then lifted her hands, palm up. “It’s this rash—it just won’t go away.”

  Nikki hesitated. “Did Porter Armstrong put you up to coming here?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did he pay you to see me for treatment?”

  Molly frowned. “No. Why would he do a fool thing like that?”

  Nikki believed her. “Have a seat and let me take a look.” She walked to a cabinet and withdrew latex gloves, then pulled a chair close to Molly’s and examined the angry red bumps between her work-worn fingers. Her hands also had a faint bluish stain.

  “The blueberry lotion Riley Bates gave me worked for a while, but then the rash got worse. The lotion smelled good, though.”

  Nikki made a rueful noise. “It’s definitely contact dermatitis. You might switch detergents, and wearing rubber gloves will be a big help.” She smiled. “Meanwhile, a steroid cream will reduce the itching and allow your hands to heal. Unfortunately, it won’t smell as good as your blueberry lotion, but the good news is you won’t turn into a Smurf.”

  “I don’t care, as long as it helps with the itching.”

  Nikki pushed to her feet and walked over to a cabinet, fished through a bin of samples and removed a tube. She walked back and handed it to Molly. “If you don’t feel better
soon, I can write you a prescription for something stronger, but I can’t fill it.”

  Molly nodded. “Thank you.” Then she opened the tube, squirted out some of the white cream and rubbed it in, the instant relief showing on her face. “That’s better already.”

  “Good.”

  “What do I owe you?”

  Nikki waved. “No charge. That’s only a sample.”

  “What about your time?”

  “I’m biding it until my van is repaired,” Nikki said, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to tell the woman she was planning to leave.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Molly said, then stood to leave. “But I understand. This place is a waste of your talents.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Nikki said, feeling petty. “It was a mistake for me to come here.” She gestured vaguely toward the door and the outside. “The rest of the women came to Sweetness looking to settle down and have a family. It feels…disingenuous for me to be here.”

  “You think there’s no place here for someone who doesn’t want to get married and have kids?”

  Nikki realized Molly was referring to herself. “No,” she said quickly. “I just think this town deserves a doctor who’s committed to the goals of the community. All this home and hearth stuff…it’s more than I signed up for.”

  “Ah. It seems hokey to you.”

  Nikki bit her lip. “I meant no disrespect.”

  “None taken,” Molly said. “Stereotypes exist about Southerners for a reason—we tend to be more sentimental about things that people in other parts of the country think is old-fashioned. We feel deeper and laugh louder and cry harder. I understand why that makes people uncomfortable, especially Northerners.”

  Nikki was both surprised and disturbed by the woman’s analysis. “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Molly said, moving toward the door. “It just is what it is.” She smiled. “Much obliged for the cream.”

  “No problem,” Nikki said, feeling self-conscious. “Um, Molly—were you able to locate the owner of the pocket watch I found?”

  Molly grinned. “I did. It belongs to Cletis Arnold Maxwell. He was a neighbor of the Armstrongs up on Clover Ridge. Cletis moved to Florida after the tornado. He was mighty glad to hear his watch had been found. It was a gift from his father. Said to thank the woman who found it most kindly.”