Mister Boots Read Free

at first we don’t think much of it. But then this seems worse. She’s rocking back and forth and saying she’s sorry to be groaning, but it makes her feel better so would we please excuse her.
    It’s the middle of the night. Even those mornings when my sister hitchhikes there aren’t a lot of cars or buggies way out here, so I say, “I’ll get the first horse I find and I can be halfway to town in an hour.” But my sister says that I don’t know the towns and I don’t know where the doctor lives, and that I should stay with Mother. (I’m scared. I don’t know what to do to help her.) My sister says for me to go get a horse and she’ll ride it.
    â€œWon’t you be scared?”
    â€œThis is for Mother.”
    Then I get the idea of Mister Boots. I believe him—I did all along—he really is a horse. He’s still limping some, but he’s much better. “I know a horse that, if you fall off, he’ll stop and put you back on himself himself. I know a horse you can cluck to and kiss to or tell him in words, or point your chin to where you want to go. Moonlight Blue.” (Of course Moonlight Blue. I’ll have to remember to tell Boots what I named him.)
    My sister says “Moonlight Blue” slowly, and gets this funny look, as if she’s staring off at some sunset or other.
    â€œI’ll be back in ten minutes.”
    I don’t know for sure if he can help us, but at least he’s sort of a grown-up, and might know what to do. Well, my sister’s a grown-up, all the way up to twenty, but she sure doesn’t seem like it.
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    It’s as if Moonlight Blue knew when he heard me gallop up. I got myself a neighbor’s horse and rode to our tree. He’s there, under the tree, looking as if straight from the moon, black mane and tail, of course four black feet. In this light, his coat is silvery, but I can see he’s what they call a “flea-bit gray,” which is a typical Arab color. A smallish horse, and every rib showing. I reach out, and he blows on my hand like they do. Then he whinnies. He starts way up high and goes way down. I recognize that whinny.
    â€œMister Boots?”
    He paws the ground as horses do when they want to say, For heaven’s sake, let’s get on with it.
    My sister reaches out to let him blow on her hand. She gets an apple and splits it for him with her own teeth. She rubs his poll and down his nose. (Think of rubbing Mister Boots’s poll!) After he finishes the apple, he leans low and chews at nothing to show, horse way, that he’ll do anything she wants him to, and then he puts his bony forehead against her breast, which is not a good sign, so I’m glad to see my sister is just as scared to mount up as she always is.
    I say, “You be careful now. I mean it!” I’m talking to Mister Boots, but my sister says, “I will.”
    He lopes the smoothest, most collected-up lope I ever saw, and I know my sister will be all right, at least with the riding part.
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    Mother is curled up on the floor by her bed. I wish she would get in it. I curl up next to her, not too close because, with all this pain, she can’t bear to be touched. There’s nothing I can do but worry—about her and my sister. I mean, maybe Boots is a bank robber. What if he runs away with her? I guess I don’t really think he will, and I guess she’d have sense enough to jump off if need be. Except she might freeze up and not be able to. Except he did care about our tree.
    â€œRoberta,” my mother says.
    (Roberta! This is serious.)
    â€œThere’s things I have to tell you. Things I should have told you before.”
    Then she doesn’t say anything. Later—practically a half hour later, she seems to feel a little better. She gets into bed and sips at the warm water I bring her. (That was all she wanted.) She says, “I worry about you. I