Free The Flyer by Marjorie Jones

her eyes—it all spoke of a barely checked fury.
    He shifted back to Mrs. McIntyre and opened his mouth to speak. Marla’s mother cut him off with a stern look. “You should be ashamed of yourself, carrying on with such women. I thought you had more sense than to take up with a fast woman from the docks. What would your mother say?”
    Righteous indignation had found a warm home inside Christina McIntyre. Her eyes flashed, and her mouth, finally, closed into a rigid line.
    Well, two could play at this game. “I should think my mother would judge her by what she was on the inside, and not make hasty judgments about people she doesn’t know,” he replied. He pointed at the medical bag, then crossed his arms. “Do you know what that is?”
    Mrs. McIntyre looked at the bag, squared her shoulders, then shook her head. “A sack, obviously.”
    “It’s a medical bag. Inside, it contains medicines and supplies to treat everything from a burn to childbirth. This woman, whom you’ve already tried and convicted for a crime you can’t even say aloud, is a doctor, and I’m flying her out to the gathering, among other places, so she can heal people. You mind telling me how that makes her a fast woman?”
    “A woman doctor? Whoever heard of such a thing?”
    Helen suddenly appeared at his side. “I have, and so has Australia, for that matter. I’m not the first woman doctor, but I would hope that a woman, especially one with the fortitude to make a life for herself out here, in such desolation, could appreciate that women are as capable and intelligent as any man.”
    “Humph!” Mrs. McIntyre turned a severe about-face and launched herself across the street—back straight, eyes forward. She encountered her daughter midway to their home, captured one of the child’s shoulders in a rough grip, and dragged her along until they disappeared inside the house.
    Closing his eyes, Paul pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry about that.”
    Helen sighed. “So that’s where those girls learned such things.”
    “What girls?”
    “Never mind. And don’t you apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s not the first time someone has looked down on my career choice.” She paused, and he found himself drawn to her silence, and her strength. “And it’s not the first time I’ve been called ‘fast.’“

    It probably wouldn’t be the last, either. Helen gathered her composure and retrieved her medical bag. “Are we flying today, or not?”
    Paul returned her stare with the damnable twinkle in his eye. She brushed off the excited feeling the look sent up her spine while adjusting her grip on the hard, arched handle of her bag. He had never called her fast. He’d never done anything to make her believe he thought it of her, either. Well, except for that kiss, and it had been brought on more by drink than anything she might have done. That wasn’t a good thing, however. It softened her thoughts about him and made her think of romantic moonlit nights and far too much heavy breathing.
    “We most certainly are, Dr. Stanwood. Are you still nervous about it?”
    “About what?” She ripped herself from the hazy twilight of her own musings. “Oh, about flying, you mean? Not one little bit. I’m too angry.” She marched in the direction Paul had indicated before the harridan from across the way had barged in on them. It was bad enough having to listen to the snide comments behind her back, but she’d be damned if she would take that kind of abuse leveled directly at her. No, ma’am.
    That woman … what was her name? Mrs. McIntyre. She had no knowledge of Helen’s life, no understanding of her past. She made her judgments based solely on her … what? Her hair? Her makeup? So had her daughters, that day she’d arrived. Helen was tired of it.
    Originally, she’d planned to grow out her bobbed hair, acclimate to the more conservative style of the small-town community. Now, she wondered what the local barber would do