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