The Alpine Kindred Read Online Free Page B

course Vida hadn't mentioned the Rasmussens in her article, so I was unaware of the connection.
    “I think the Bourgettes have a great idea,” Carla said after I'd told her to go ahead and send the restaurant story to the back shop for publication on page two. “We could use another place to eat. I get tired of the Venison Inn and the Burger Barn and those fast-food places at the mall.”
    I agreed. “Let's hope they have better luck than theCalifornians who tried to fix up the old hotel,” I noted, referring to the L. A.-area transplants who had tried to renovate the old Alpine Hotel in the hope of turning it into a bijou hostelry, complete with a gourmet kitchen. Five years ago their timing, as well as their financing, had been dicey. The project had collapsed, and the hotel was currently being considered by the local churches as a battered women's shelter.
    Which, it occurred to me, would provide editorial fodder for next week. Like the county health department's slow selection process in hiring a new doctor, Alpine's clergy were taking their time to finalize the shelter project. I understood the locals' resistance to change, but in both cases, I felt they were shooting themselves in the foot.
    Or was it feet?
I wondered idly, still in my proofreader's mode. But the paper was in Kip MacDuff's hands, and it was time to go home. Once again, I dodged Dodge. Behind the wheel of my aging green Jaguar, I turned off Front Street and headed for Railroad Avenue. It was about time I took a good look at the future diner site.
    The loading dock and the warehouse were located just off Alpine Way by the bridge over the Skykomish River. The structures had originally served the Alpine Lumber Company, which had stood on the site of Old Mill Park just across what is now the main thoroughfare in and out of town. The charred remnants of what had once been the bustling hub of Alpine were flanked on the north by River Road and on the south by the railroad tracks. The fire had started during the night last October while Vida and I were out of town. Except for the sagging wreck of a building, damage had been minimal. The loading dock was rarely used, and the warehouse had been empty for years. Like the rest of Alpine, the structures had been waiting for better days.
    Getting out of the car, I surveyed the burned timbers and piles of rubble. Though I'd often driven past the ruins, I hadn't paid much attention until now. The site would be a good location for a restaurant, I decided. There'd be plenty of room for parking, a river view, and proximity to the main thoroughfare in and out of town. Maybe the Bourgette brothers had more business sense than Einar Rasmussen Jr. gave them credit for.
    With a nod of approval, I got back in my Jag and headed for my little log house at the edge of the forest. Alpine is built on the steep slopes of Tonga Ridge, with residents nestled among the second-stand evergreens. The Douglas fir and hemlock and cedar are seventy years old, and bare patches on Mount Baldy and other nearby peaks attest to more recent harvests. The old growth, which yielded pre-Columbian giants, had been cut down in the first quarter of the twentieth century to supply the Alpine Lumber Company. For almost two decades, the mill had been the town's economic base. But once the founder and owner, Carl Clemans, finished clear-cutting his stand, he shut down operations. Alpine was faced with extinction until Vida's future father-in-law, Rufus Runkel, and a Norwegian fondly recalled as Olaf the Obese, built a ski lodge. Other mills and logging companies had come and gone since the late Twenties, but environmental concerns put timber towns such as Alpine up against the wall. One local mill remained, with a scant half-dozen cutting areas on nearby mountainsides. Feeling like an endangered species, Alpiners had welcomed the new community college with open arms.
    Or almost. As usual, there were holdouts who feared newcomers, especially those whose