They Called Her Mrs. Doc. Read online

  But his well-intentioned words held no comfort for Cassie. She clung to her ruined bonnet and continued to cry.

  Samuel drove the mare as close to the rough building as he could. Cassie noticed that there was smoke coming from a simple chimney pipe. Then the door swung open and a man, his suspenders drooping and his red underwear showing as his upper garment, stood in the doorway. A stubby pipe was clamped in his teeth and he puffed away as he stood looking at his visitors.

  “Come in,” he called through clenched teeth. “It’s a real soaker.”

  Without a word Samuel climbed from the buggy and reached up for Cassie’s hand. She still clutched her ruined blue felt and refused to let it go even to assist her descent from the wagon.

  She did manage to sniff and wipe away her tears. She felt sure that the man in the door would not be able to pick out tears from raindrops, and for the moment she did not care in the least if he could.

  It was warm in the small cabin—for that Cassie was thankful. She was even wetter than she had known, and her sodden skirts clung to her legs as she tried to move.

  “Put yer hoss in the barn,” the man was offering, and Cassie was aware that Samuel moved off to somewhere, leaving her totally alone with the whiskered old gent.

  He turned around and pushed the door closed with a heave of his shoulder, leaving the room in darkness. There was only the dim light coming from one small smoke-filmed window and the flickering flame from the open fire.

  “Looks like the storm caught ya off guard,” he observed. “Here. Hustle up to the fire and dry yerself off.”

  Cassie accepted the chair he offered. Her limp skirts dragged about her feet. In her hand she still held the bonnet, shapeless and dripping and totally ruined.

  Then she felt her hair begin to tumble down around her face. She had dislodged it when she had pulled at the hat.

  What a sight I must be, she thought, the tears threatening to spill again. I do hope there’s no woman in this house to see me like this.

  She released the treasured bit of felt, letting it fall from her hand to hit the wooden floor with a dull, wet thump. Then with trembling fingers she tried to pin her hair back in place.

  The old gentleman threw another log on the fire, making it hiss and spit like an angry cat.

  “Got a mirror there on the wall,” he said to Cassie, jerking his head toward the spot.

  Cassie’s eyes followed his nod, and she saw a piece of broken mirror tacked to the rough wall with several small pieces of stick. The surface was yellowed and streaked, and she was sure it wouldn’t help much with her task. But to please the old man, she rose from her chair and faced the mirror while she pinned her hair in place as best as she could. The glimpses she could get of her rain-spattered face and sodden hair were not encouraging.

  Samuel was soon back, dripping water, but he had brought one of Cassie’s bags.

  “I thought you might like some dry clothes,” he suggested as he lifted the case for her to see. She cast a quick glance around the one small room, but the old man was already reaching for his buckskin coat.

  “Got a few chores to do,” he said around his pipe. “Might as well git ’em cared fer now. You folk jest make yerselves to home here.”

  And so saying he tugged at the stubborn door, stepped through into the driving rain, and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Cassie reached for the bag. She would lose no time in getting into something more comfortable.

  They spent the night with the old rancher. There was only one cot and he insisted that Cassie use it. There were no sheets, only two worn and faded Hudson Bay blankets. The pillow had no case and was hard and lumpy, and inwardly she cringed. But Cassie knew better than to complain.

  So this was Samuel’s West. It was every bit as crude and ugly as any of the stories she had heard. She had no intention of staying in such a desolate and heathen land—none whatever. Surely Samuel could see for himself that she did not belong here. She would not need to force his decision. She was sure he would reach the right one on his own.

  The sun was shining through the dirty window when she awoke the next morning. She was alone in the room and for one minute panic seized her. Surely the old man had not done something terrible to Samuel.

  And then she heard voices outside, drawing near to the cabin.

  “An’ this here ol’ bear’s been a-robbin’ my calves fer three springs runnin’ now. I figure as how this winter I’m gonna find his den and smoke ’im on out iffen it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Be careful,” warned Samuel. “You know that a sleeping bear doesn’t take kindly to being roused.”

  “Well, the way I see it—,” went on the old fellow, and the voices moved away.

  Cassie stretched to take some of the kinks from her limbs. Then she climbed from the bed and looked with disgust at her messy skirts. She had been unable to undress properly for bed the night before. She didn’t think it fair to drive the man from his warm fireside out into the rain again. Now she was wrinkled and frazzled and in need of a good hot bath.

  But a bath was not to be. There was not even opportunity to change her attire, for the men soon returned and Samuel announced that they were set to be on their way again as soon as they had breakfasted on flapjacks and coffee.

  Chapter Ten

  Settling In

  It didn’t take long for Cassie to realize that Samuel had no intention of turning the mare around and heading back toward Calgary to buy a ticket to Montreal.

  He seemed especially pleased with the day, the plodding mare, his sturdy buggy, and even the rutted road that no longer kicked up dust in their faces. Cassie felt that the only attraction was found in the mountains to the west.

  “I don’t think it will get too hot today,” Samuel observed, cocking his head to study the morning sky.

  Cassie didn’t think it was likely either as she clasped her shawl about her, trying desperately to draw warmth from it.

  But as the day wore on it did get warm. Cassie eventually discarded her shawl and later longed for some shade.

  It took most of the morning to complete the journey, and when they arrived in Jaret, Cassie found it to be just as she had feared. It was a dreary, plain little town, with a few buildings lining a main street of sorts. Wooden sidewalks stretched lazily in front of some of the buildings. The others were reached by trekking through the dust—or the mud—whatever might be in season.

  Scattered here and there were the village homes. They were mostly clapboard, many unpainted, a few with little yards hidden behind picket fences.

  “My,” said Cassie, “it certainly is—unadorned.”

  Samuel chuckled at her choice of words.

  “She is, isn’t she?” he admitted, but he seemed delighted with “her.”

  “You grew up here?” Cassie inquired, finding it difficult to think of anyone raising a family in the area.

  “On a farm a few miles east of town.”

  Cassie lifted her eyes to the east. Bald prairie stretched as far as her eyes could see. She grimaced but made no comment.

  “Where are your sisters?”

  “They’ve married and moved away. One is in Vancouver, the other in Edmonton.”

  Samuel guided the mare down the street and stopped in front of an unpainted frame building. “Why don’t you get down and stretch your legs,” he invited Cassie. “I need a few things here at the hardware and then we’ll go on down to see the house.” Excitement tinged his voice.

  Cassie knew he was anxious to show her what he had picked for her future home. She climbed from the buggy with the help of his hand, shielding her eyes from the bright summer sun to look down the street and then up. She saw nothing that looked promising. When Samuel turned to enter the hardware, she started off in the direction that seemed to offer the least dust for her skirts.

  She didn’t walk far. She had taken only a few steps when she remembered the appalling condition of her gown and hair. With a red face she hurried
back to the buggy, climbed aboard and pretended to be fully absorbed in the book she had been reading.

  Women passed on the street. She felt sure they would have greeted her, but she was totally unprepared to make anyone’s acquaintance. She pushed her nose farther into her book and watched them out of the corner of her eye.

  Samuel soon returned with many packages piled in his arms. A man with a rather dirty brown apron came with him, carrying a good share of the load.

  “Folks will be mighty glad to have you back—mighty glad,” the man was saying. “Couldn’t believe the good news when you writ thet letter. Everyone fer miles will be jealous of us, havin’ our very own doc. Most folks have to travel clear into Calgary—or else Lethbridge. Long journey when they’ve got a sick one in tow.”

  Samuel thanked the man for his help and turned to Cassie. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Mr. Stockwood. Cassandra Smith. Cassandra, our hardware owner, Mr. Stockwood.”

  Cassie flushed with embarrassment but removed the book from her face long enough to properly greet the man.

  “Pleased to meet ya, Mrs. Smith. Whole town been buzzin’ ever since we heard that Sammie had picked hisself a wife. Mighty glad to bid ya welcome. Mighty glad.” And he wiped a huge, rough hand on his stained apron and extended it to her.

  Cassie had no choice but to accept the proffered hand. Her small one seemed smothered in the big one. He squeezed firmly and Cassie feared that she might wince, but he released his hold, stepped back and gave her a hearty grin, then moved away so they could proceed.

  “I don’t expect the team and wagon for several hours yet,” said Samuel, “but we can go on down and see the house while we wait.”

  He clucked to the mare, and the buggy moved down the dusty street. Cassie was glad to escape curious eyes.

  They pulled up in front of a small frame home. At one point it had been painted white. Bits of the paint still showed on the boards. There was a fenced yard, but a few of the posts were leaning precariously and some of the pickets lay on the ground instead of sharing their task of protecting the yard from intruders.

  There was no walk, simply a trodden path that had mostly given way to weeds and wild grass. There also had been a garden at one time. Cassie could spot the place by the increased growth of weeds in the area.

  One windowpane was broken and a rag of curtain dangled in the soft breeze, lifting now and then to wave a feeble greeting and then drop back into place.

  The whole thing looked dismal and drab to Cassie, but when she dared to glance toward Samuel, she found him grinning.

  “Needs some work,” he said simply, “but it seems solid enough. Shouldn’t take more than a few days to get it into proper shape.”

  Then he turned to Cassie, his hazel eyes sparkling with teasing and said softly, “Do you wish to be carried over the threshold now, Mrs. Smith, or do you want me to wait until we are settled?”

  Cassie flushed, then tried hard to reply with the same carefree manner, “Well, I believe I will wait until you have finished your husbandly task of repairs,” she said lightly.

  Samuel grinned, pushed back his lock of wayward hair with one hand and reached for Cassie with the other.

  He drew her close against his side and pressed a kiss against her hair.

  “It looks like flame in the sunshine,” he whispered of her hair. “I think I’ll call you Red.” His eyes twinkled.

  Cassie was grateful he hadn’t said “carrots.”

  “I’ve arranged for us to stay at Mrs. Clement’s while I do the repairs,” he surprised her by saying. “I told her we’d be there for dinner so we’d better get going.”

  Cassie felt relieved. At least they would be given a decent place to stay while Samuel worked on the house. With any measure of good luck, she might never have to move into the little house at all.

  But if Cassie had been relieved to hear that they were to share accommodation elsewhere, her pleasure was short-lived when she viewed the new quarters.

  It was an old rambling house, tacked and held together with bits of this and pieces of that. It had never known paint, nor had the yard ever been raked or trimmed. One scraggly tree stood near the door, dragging pitiful branches dangerously close to one’s head upon entrance. Even Cassie had to duck in order to avoid having the pins torn from her bonnet in passing.

  They were welcomed by a reed-thin woman with a sharp chin and sharper eyes. She seemed to look right through Cassie, and the younger woman wondered if the older woman was studying her soul and finding it wanting.

  Mrs. Clement clicked loose false teeth when she talked—and she talked often and profusely.

  “Expected ya last night. Had the bed all ready,” she began, making the words sound almost like an accusation.

  “We had hoped to be here but a storm held us up,” explained Samuel.

  She eyed Cassie sharply, seeming to put all of the blame on her. “Locals woulda jest kept travelin’,” she observed.

  “It was too hard on the mare to pull the buggy through the mud,” said Samuel, and Cassie was pleased that he did not allow her to be held responsible.

  “Where’d ya bed?” clicked the woman as she led them down a dark hall and pushed open a creaking door.

  “Stayed with a fella by the name of Hank,” replied Samuel.

  The woman’s sharp eyes brightened. “Hank, eh? Never could turn one away, ol’ Hank. Take in any stray.”

  Cassie wasn’t sure she liked being called a stray. Particularly in the way that Mrs. Clement had spoken the word, but she made no comment.

  Mrs. Clement turned to look at them as she held the door open, her eyes snapping, her teeth clicking. “Heard ya had red hair,” she said to Cassandra. “It sure is red all right. Got the temper to go along with it, I ’spect.”

  Cassie could feel her cheeks beginning to flame. She also felt Samuel’s soft touch on her arm. With great difficulty she decided to prove the woman wrong. Her chin came up and her green eyes snapped but she held her tongue.

  She passed by the woman through the door and looked at the room that was to be theirs for the next several days.

  It was small. Barely big enough for them to pass each other. The bed was small, too, but it took most of the space. Hooks lined the walls, and Cassie knew that they were to suffice for a wardrobe. An old dresser stood against the wall under the single window and on it sat a cracked blue pitcher in a chipped cream bowl. One worn towel hung limply from a peg over the bed. Cassie realized she was seeing her bedroom, bathroom, and parlor all in one brief glance.

  “Put fresh water in the pitcher jest a couple hours ago,” the woman was saying. “You can wash up if you’ve a mind to. Jest throw the used water out the winda. Dinner will be in ten minutes or so.”

  And with those words she left.

  Cassie did not turn to look at Samuel. She was afraid he might see what she did not wish to reveal. Surely, surely, Samuel would realize now that they couldn’t possibly stay in this wilderness town. Surely he would tell her not to bother to unpack her cases, that they would just climb aboard the buggy, flick the reins over the mare and head straight back to Calgary.

  But Samuel was not speaking. He crossed the torn linoleum on the floor and leaned to open the window.

  “A little breeze would feel good,” he said cheerfully as he hoisted the single unit. But not a breath of air stirred the limp flour-sack curtain.

  “You go ahead and wash,” he invited Cassie, pouring some of the tepid water into the basin.

  Cassie washed, then dried on the scant towel. Samuel did not even change the water but proceeded to wash after her, sharing the same towel she had used. Then he did exactly as bidden and leaned from the window to throw the basin of water into the yard beyond.

  The dinner was good. Cassie had to admit that. Though it was simple fare, Mrs. Clement was a good cook. But the older woman chattered and clicked and asked candid questions the entire meal. Cassie ate hurriedly, wishing to return to their room—their tiny little r
oom.

  “You didn’t get much sleep last night,” Samuel encouraged her. “Why don’t you lie down and have a nap? I’m going over to see where I will start on the house.”

  Cassie nodded, only too glad to comply.

  But the room was stuffy warm. If she opened the window the flies came in, and if she shut the window and killed off the flies, she suffered from the heat.

  At last she stretched out, exhausted, and slept in spite of herself. When she awakened it was well into the afternoon. She debated whether to stay where she was and try to read in the intense heat, or to escape the little room and walk down the street to see Samuel.

  She moved to the window and looked out on the sultry day. A dust devil twirled a sandy cloud round and round before depositing it on a stretch of broken sidewalk. In the distance the bare plains seemed to dance with the haze of heat waves. A few scraggly chickens scratched fruitlessly in the dust of the path. Cassie turned from it all with a lump in her throat.

  “So much for bringing culture,” she whispered, fighting back tears that threatened to come. “These people wouldn’t understand it. They are more concerned with keeping the dust out of the flour bin.”

  Cassie went back to bed.

  “How does one make contact for household help?” Cassie asked their landlady innocently one day while the two of them sat on the back porch sharing a pitcher of lemonade.

  The lady looked at her with a puzzled frown. She clicked her teeth once or twice but said nothing.

  “Where does one find one’s help?” Cassie repeated, thinking that the woman might not have heard or understood her question.

  “What ya meanin’?” said Mrs. Clement. “What ya wantin’ help fer? Thought yer man had him all the help he needs.”

  “No. No. I mean for housekeeping. Cooking. For me, after we are settled.”

  The woman looked at Cassie as though she couldn’t possibly be hearing right. “Ya havin’ a baby?” she asked candidly.

  Cassie flushed. “Of course not,” she quickly countered. “We’ve just recently been married.”