“Clint practically tore the whole county apart searching for her. When he finally found her she was living with a young widower and his small, motherless children. Right here in Grace Valley, before this was much of a town. The widower was a kind and loving man by the name of Wyatt Manchester and he was a homesteader. A farmer. He took Miranda into his home and cared for her bruises and her broken heart, and she cared for his children. I think they fell in love. I’m sure they did, they must have.
“But Clint found them, and without the blink of an eye, he shot them all. The whole precious bunch of them, Wyatt, Miranda and the children.”
“Ahh, Mrs. Claypool,” Susan Stone tried to interrupt.
“It’s all right, it comes out well,” Sam said, shushing her worries. “It’s a regular Disney movie.”
“Then what?” Sydney asked, trying to get Myrna back on track.
“Well, of course the law took Clint Barker away and hanged him for the murder. Not long after, the town of Pleasure sort of fell quiet. There wasn’t any more gold in the hills, the Spanish lost interest and what was left here were farmers, ranchers, loggers and fishermen. It was a decent place again, without barroom brawls and painted ladies.
“Then, back in the twenties, when I was just a tot and Elmer not yet born, there was a couple passing through Grace Valley by wagon on their way to a family wedding south of here. They hit fog and ice, which around here can be so dangerous, especially on the mountain passes. Their horse and wagon slipped into a ravine and they had to climb back up to the road. They couldn’t rescue their animal or possessions, and night was setting in. Freezing and lost, they went along the road, in desperate search of help or shelter before night swallowed them up.
“A man wandered into their path. He was handsome, about thirty years old, and he wore boots and a heavy jacket and carried an ax and rope. He took them back to his cabin, where his wife gave them hot soup and dried their clothes by the fire while he went back to the road and rescued their horse from the ravine. They were a beautiful young couple with two tiny children, so loving and sweet, and obviously cared so much for each other. There was such a feeling of health and wealth in their small, tidy home. Clearly the traveling couple’s lives were saved by these people. On their return trip, they stopped in Grace Valley with a gift for the family who had come to their aid.
“They searched and searched, but couldn’t find their way back to the cabin, so they came into town and went from door to door, asking everyone they met for directions to the Manchester home. But no one had ever heard of them. It was when they asked an old-timer who’d lived in the valley since prospecting days that they learned the truth—Wyatt Manchester, Miranda, and Wyatt’s two small children had been dead for fifty years. They are angels who come to the aid of travelers who pass through this burg. They have been most often seen out on Highway 482, at a turn in the road known as Angel’s Pass.”
There was a moment of reverent silence when Myrna finished, then Judge said, “That story gets better every time I hear it.”
“Well, it’s not a story, you old party pooper. It’s the God’s truth!”
John was leaning forward, elbows on knees, mesmerized. His wife looked a little less intrigued. “Has anyone seen them since?” he asked.
“Oh my, yes, people claim to see them all the time!” Myrna said.
“Have you seen them?”
“No, I’m sorry to say I haven’t. I hope I will, before I die. What a treat that would be.”
“If you don’t see them before, you’ll see them after,” Elmer pointed out.
A row from the kitchen broke the mood, and Myrna had to excuse herself to go settle the Barstows down and help sweep up the broken glass.
“John,” June said, taking him aside. “When I first came here to practice with my dad after medical school, I found the people I’d known all my life were resistant to me. Small town people are slow to accept change, slow to draw newcomers in. But they’re a friendly, generous and really welcoming bunch. On Monday I’ll introduce a few of my patients to you, and again on Tuesday, and so on. After a few weeks, you’ll undoubtedly have a list of scheduled appointments of your own. But be patient.”
“I’m not worried, June,” he said. “If I have a little time on my hands for now, that will suit Susan just fine. We still have a lot of unpacking and exploring to do.”
Tom drove the police Range Rover slowly through the forest, along one of the many old logging roads that wound its way into the foothills of the Trinity Alps. To the men in the back seat he said, “My experience with Clarence tells me it’s best if we leave the car and walk in, single file. According to his wife, it’s the rush of people that brings on his delusions.”
“If he’s delusional, it’s probably all the time,” Jerry Powell said.
“Not necessarily,” said Charlie McNeil. “I’ve found the vets have a variety of designer symptoms to accompany their PTSD. It might be that too many people around stresses Clarence, makes him feel unsafe, and the paranoia brings on the delusions. I have one vet who is being slowly driven out of his mind by the DEA helicopters. Every time they make a run over these foothills looking for the pot growers, he thinks he’s back in Nam.”
“Does he think they’re his choppers?”
“So far. But you never know when that might change.”
“Okay,” Tom said. He stopped the Rover. “Follow me. Single file. Put a little space between us—it’s less threatening.”
Jerry and Charlie had worked together many times, though Jerry’s specialty was adolescent and family counseling and Charlie was a VA nurse with a Master’s Degree in counseling. They made an odd-looking couple: Jerry tall and lean, and Charlie, short and squat. But as a team, they had the right stuff to help people. And they each carried a bag of books and magazines for Mrs. Mull.
“Clarence!” Tom called from the edge of the clearing. “Clarence Mull, it’s Tom Toopeek! Permission to come across the yard!” He waited. “Clarence Mull!” he yelled again.
“Maybe he’s not in there,” Jerry whispered.
“He’s in there. There’s smoke from a cook fire. Can’t you smell that? Smells good,” Tom said.
Charlie sniffed the air. “Wonder what he’s cooking? That does smell good.”
“Well, if he doesn’t shoot us, maybe he’ll ask us to dinner.”
“If he was going to shoot you,” Tom said, “you’d already be dead.”
“He shot at you,” Jerry reminded Tom. “You’re not dead.”
“There’s no question in my mind that if he had wanted to hit me, he would have. That’s one of the reasons I didn’t arrest him. He just wanted to be left alone. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.”
At that moment there was a rustling sound to their left and Clarence came through the trees, his rifle in one hand and a string of mountain trout in the other. He stopped when he saw the three men, slowly regarded them, and nodded once to Tom. “You bring Jurea some reading?” he asked.
Charlie hefted the sack he held. “A great deal of reading, Mr. Mull. I’m Charlie McNeil and this tall man is Jerry Powell. We came with Chief Toopeek to talk to you because we have information about your son.”
The door to the small house slowly squeaked open and Jurea filled the frame with her tall girth. Only June and George Fuller had seen Jurea’s scarred face, and though Tom, Jerry and Charlie had been warned, it took an effort for all of them not to gasp or wince or turn their eyes away.
“I guess if you have word of Clinton, his mother should hear it,” Clarence said.
Charlie moved toward Jurea, shifting his bag of books and magazines onto one hip and stretching out a hand in her direction. “How do you do, Mrs. Mull. My name is Charlie McNeil and I’m a nurse with the VA hospital. I’m glad to meet you.”
“I ain’t going to no goddamn VA hospital!” Clarence barked.
Both Charlie and Jerry jumped in surprise.
“I told them that,” Tom said. “We’re not here to take
you to the hospital, but to tell you how your son is getting by. He didn’t do too well, Clarence. I’m afraid he lost the foot.”
“Oh Clarence!” Jurea cried. “Oh Clarence, my boy!”
“The doctor tried, Mrs. Mull, but there was gangrene. And Clinton is still very sick with fever, but his prognosis is good. He’s going to be all right now, thanks to surgery and antibiotics.”
But Jurea dropped her head into her hands and wept for her son. Jerry reached toward her and laid a reassuring hand on her arm. “Mrs. Mull, let us take you to see him.”
“I daren’t leave Clarence and Wanda,” she said through her tears.
“We could make it a fast trip,” he urged.
“I couldn’t, sir. It wouldn’t be right and it would probably only shame the boy. But could you tell him,” she said, finally lifting her face, “that I cried for him?”
“Of course,” Jerry said.
“And that he’s ever in our prayers, all of us,” she said.
“Might shoot that jenny,” Clarence said.
Tom kicked at the dirt. “That’d be a shame, wouldn’t it.”
Jurea sniffed back her tears. “He wouldn’t. He’s just talking.”
“I’m going to come back in a couple of days,” Charlie said. “Might bring these two friends with me for company. We brought you dozens of books and magazines, but how about if I brought paper and pens and colored markers for you and your daughter? Could you draw something for Clinton? Write him something?”
At his words a remarkable thing happened to Jurea’s face—the half that was unscarred lit up and she smiled. The pull of muscles caused the scar to lift away from her blind eye and for just a moment she looked almost pretty. But the more important thing was what Charlie saw—that the scar might actually be helped by plastic surgery.
John Stone showed up at the clinic bright and early Monday morning and spent the day getting acquainted with some of the patients. He had lunch with June and Tom Toopeek at Fuller’s Café, and while there, shook the hand of several locals. June told him to take off early, reminding him that small town folk were slow to accept newcomers. Then she told Charlotte and Jessica that she thought he was going to work out pretty well. In due time, she suspected, patients might even ask for him.
On Tuesday morning, June drove into town and was forced to slow down for the traffic. There was no fair or festival that she could think of, no farmer’s market or bazaar or homecoming game, but there were cars parked everywhere. The clinic lot was full, the lot at the Presbyterian Church had a couple of dozen cars parked there and the café spaces were full. June paused in front of the clinic, stupefied.
While she watched, Laura Robertson jumped out of her truck and dragged her son, Matt, by the wrist while she balanced a plastic container on the palm of her other hand. She walked briskly to the clinic. When she opened the door, June could see that the waiting room was overflowing with people.
Two middle-aged women exited the clinic while she watched. They stopped in the middle of the street, leaned on each other and tittered and giggled like teenagers.
June slowly drove to the café, and double parked and went inside, still in a state of shock. Most of the regulars had moved to tables in front of the café, where they could watch the rush at the clinic.
George had her coffee ready and a bag of blueberry muffins. Tom leaned against the pastry counter with his steaming cup.
“I see Dr. Stone is taking appointments,” Tom said.
“I warned him that small towns are funny—friendly on the one hand, but slow to draw in newcomers on the other.”
“Hmm, you must have been talking about some other small town,” Tom said.
Eight
That first week the handsome Dr. Stone practiced in the valley, June thought she’d have to install a revolving door, but things soon calmed. Even so, his popularity was established as phenomenal. Spring melted into summer and John had a full appointment register. And he seemed oblivious.
“Do you have to put up with this everywhere you go?” she asked him.
“With what?”
“Hordes of crazed fans, begging a moment of your time to bask in the radiance of your handsome smile…”
“Oh June, you’re hilarious! I’m just the new doctor in town, that’s all.”
“I have to tell you, John, I didn’t get a single cake when I came back to town.”
“Probably because you grew up here. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, about the angels….”
“Yes?”
“Well, are there really angels here?”
“Tough question.”
“Well,” he said, “do you believe in it? Them? Whatever?”
“I don’t not believe it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means—I grew up hearing stories about angels. There are several. Another favorite version is the sheriff’s deputy who got shot by a fugitive out on 101 and some woodsman-type fellow stopped the bleeding and stayed with him right up until help came. Then he disappeared into the forest without a trace. The deputy was convinced he was Wyatt, the angel. I think the Good Samaritan actually gave that as his name.”
“That’s pretty convincing,” John said. “I mean, a wounded deputy…”
“I know. Except that if I were growing pot back in the Trinity Alps and I saw a shot deputy and wanted to help him, but didn’t want anyone to know who I was or why I was around, I’d say my name was Wyatt and disappear back into the trees.”
“Oh.” John was clearly deflated.
“By the way, they’re real, you know. Marijuana farmers. Don’t go back in the hills. Stick to parks, forestry approved trails, that sort of thing. Some of those old paths could be booby-trapped. Plus the growers have their own little wars. Drug farming is very territorial.”
“You ever see a real marijuana farmer?” John asked.
“That I know of? No. We don’t seem to have any trouble related to that business in town, but back in the hills it’s open season. There are dozens if not hundreds of old abandoned logging roads out there. People who don’t know where they’re going have gotten hurt.”
“Okay, fine. Tom and your dad both already warned me about that. But what about the angels? I guess you’ve never seen one.”
“No, I haven’t. And you should remember that Aunt Myrna, well, she is a novelist. A storyteller extraordinaire. She tends to embellish everything.”
“But the whole town believes in these angels!”
“So it seems.”
“And you don’t not believe in them!”
“John,” she said, giving his arm a reassuring pat. “Angels are a state of mind. Don’t get so intense about it.”
“Sydney is driving us crazy. She wants to know if they’re real or a story. We’ve always told her the truth—we don’t make things up. Silly things.”
“Silly things? Like Santa and the tooth fairy?”
John grinned. “Well, they’re real.”
“Thank God. I thought you were going to be one of those atrocious modern parents who take away their kids’ fantasy life before they outgrow their training wheels! My father is one of the most no-nonsense, pragmatic, low on bullshit parents a kid can grow up under, and he said, whether I knew it or not, whether I could see them or not, I had angels.”
“I guess I can see his point,” John said.
But June had stopped listening. She was remembering back to when she was seven, climbing the big tree in her yard with Tom Toopeek, Greg Silva and Chris Forrest. She was the only girl—she was often the only girl—but she was as loud and fast and strong as the boys. They were building a tree house. The base and platform had been up for weeks, anchored by Elmer and Mikos, who made sure it was safe, solid and would bear their weight. But she and her friends were always adding to it—walls, rope swings, ladder rungs up the trunk and along the huge boughs.
And she fell.
It was funny; she was completely unconscious, but she rem
embered every bit of it. The long flight down, the thunk of her skull, the crack of her spine, and then hearing everyone around her but not being able to respond or move.
The boys ran into her house screaming, “Doc! Doc! Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!” while June lay there beneath the tree, lifeless. Her mother and father and friends all came back to her, her father yelling that no one should touch her. Her eyes were open, she could see him looming over her, but she couldn’t even blink. His face above hers filled the space of her vision. Then he slowly touched two fingers to her neck to get a pulse and she found her breath. She inhaled sharply, painfully, then coughed and began to cry.
She had had the damnedest headache for about a week, but was otherwise miraculously uninjured. Her mother tried to keep her out of the trees, but that passed. It had been June’s only real brush with death.
“June? June?”
She blinked and looked at John. She smiled. “I’ve met the Princess Sydney and I believe she has angels, whether she can see them or not.”
“That’s probably what I’ll end up telling her, but I was looking for some slightly more reliable feedback. For my own curiosity, as well. You know, if someone like Doc or Tom Toopeek had actually encountered angels….”
“Have you met Jerry Powell yet?” she asked him.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Dr. Powell, child and family therapist, Ph.D. in clinical psych. He moved here a few years ago from San Jose, I think. Really nice guy.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Why? Has he seen the angels?”
“I don’t think so, but he’s been for a ride in a spaceship.”
She walked away from him, grinning over her shoulder.
“We’re going to be drinking bottled water, for sure,” John muttered.
Mikos Silva had a nice farm between the Trinity and King mountain ranges, south of town. It was an even, flat valley there, not too far off the highway. He had built himself a sturdy house and raised three kids—two boys and a girl. Greg Silva was the same age as June, and they had been friends all through school.