They Called Her Mrs. Doc. by Janette Oke Page A

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 room.
    “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.”
    “Only folks I know who have house help are the ones sick abed, having new babies where things ain’t quite right, or they got ’em too many little ones to handle alone,” said Mrs. Clement.
    Cassie refused to blush.
    “Every woman I know has household help,” she said with a hint of defiance.
    “Well, it ain’t done here,” went on Mrs. Clement, her teeth clicking noisily. “Folks would all wonder jest what was wrong with ya.”
    Cassie did flush then, but before she could make any defense Mrs. Clement spoke again. “Ya don’t know how to cook or keep house?” she asked without embarrassment.
    “Of course I know,” said Cassie with a slight lift of her head. “My mother saw to it that I learned all of the arts of—”
    “Then