Down by the River Read Free Page A

dumbly, at his jacked-up truck. “What do you say we throw your tire in the back here and I’ll give you a lift into town. Maybe you can get it fixed, get your truck running and go to the hospital.”
    He shrugged. “I should just get the tire fixed and head out on my own. I never did think it was a good idea to have all them kids.”
    “You think anyone would come looking for you?” Jim asked, one brow lifted.
    The man scowled and slowly, without much enthusiasm, rolled the heavy tire toward the pickup. Jim, impatient, picked up the tire and pitched it into the bed of the truck. When the man got to the passenger door he stopped, looked at Sadie and said, “I’ll ride in the back. I’m not much for dogs.”
    Just as well, Jim thought. Sadie’s not much for idiots. But all he said was “Suit yourself.”

Two
    E ven though Grace Valley had grown from a population of around nine hundred to more than fifteen hundred in the past ten years, things were actually very slow to change. In fact, Valley Drive, the street that ran down the middle of town, had only seen a few minor improvements. There were just a half dozen businesses, including the police department, the church and the clinic.
    Sam Cussler’s garage sat at the far west end. He’d owned it for forty-five years. It was weatherworn the day he signed the deed and he’d never seen the need to prettify it. Sam, twice widowed, worked harder at fishing than at pumping gas. And in Grace Valley, typical of small rural towns, most people kept their own vehicles running, so Sam wasn’t called upon to do much mechanical work. In fact, he’d usually leave the pumps on and townsfolk would write him their IOU and slip it in his mail slot. He’dgo around town and collect when the fish weren’t biting.
    Down the block was the police department, set up in a three-bedroom house and run by Tom Toopeek and his young deputies, Lee Stafford and Ricky Rios, all lifetime residents. Tom had been brought to Grace Valley by his parents when he was a mere tot and had spent his childhood as one of June’s best friends. Tom’s six siblings had left Grace Valley to make their marks on the world. Tom not only stayed, but he built his house onto his parent’s original cabin and added five of his own children to the mix. Lee and Ricky were handpicked by Tom as soon as the town could afford deputies. They were sent to a police academy, after which Tom personally trained them to adopt his philosophies in how best to serve a small town.
    Also on Valley Drive was a flower shop, closed for the time being because its owner, Justine, Sam’s late wife, had recently passed on. There was George Fuller’s café, open for service every day of the year including Christmas, a bakery run by Burt Crandall and his wife, Syl, the clinic and the Presbyterian Church, which boasted a new pastor, Harry Shipton, who was considered to be a breath of fresh air. Behind the café and church a riverbank as wide as a football field sloped gently toward the Windle River. Most town gatherings were held there—such as the Fourth of July picnic or the Harvest Festival. George Fuller had built a couple of brick barbecues and people would bring blankets and lawn chairs.
    There was a post office out on Highway 482 and a seasonal farmer’s market set up to the south. The schools—elementary, middle and high school—were located between Grace Valley, Westport and Rockport because students from other small towns were bussed in, according to need.
    Grace Valley was just one of dozens, perhaps hundreds of small towns that speckled northern California from San Francisco to the border of Oregon. And while they had many similarities, they also each had a special and unique personality. The major industry was the land—farming, fishing, logging, vineyards, ranching—and the beauty that brought both tourists and transplants from the urban sprawl. Along with tourists and transplants came inns and bed-and-breakfasts, specialty