Paint the Wind by Pam Muñoz Ryan Read Free Book Online

when she saw him.
    â€œDidn’t mean to scare you,” said Fig, setting the boots on the floor. “Here. Let me help you with that.” He took the big quilt and fluffed it over the bed and lined up the pillows. “You know, I’ve spent a fair part of my life studying the art of being messy. If you keep up all this fussiness, it’s going to make me look bad. Understand?”
    She nodded.
    â€œDon’t look so serious. I’m teasing and you’re not in trouble. Now, hurry and change your clothes. Wear some long pants if you have any, and those are some old boots of your mother’s that we never could part with. They look the right size but wear two pairs of socks if they’re too big. We need to get some food in your stomach. I can hear it growling. You’re not allergic to pan cakes, are you?”
    Maya shook her head.
    Before he walked out the door, he turned to Maya, who was still standing stock-still, and winked at her. “You’re a skinny thing,” he said. “You must take after me.”
    Maya’s face relaxed and a small smile escaped.
    She dressed and pulled on the boots, which fit perfectly, and stroked the worn leather calves. She was glad they weren’t new. Glad the boots carried all of her mother’s experiences. She wished that she could soak all of their history from the scuffed toes all the way up into her head. She stood. They made her taller, but she felt awkward and unsure of her new stance. As she walked down the hall, she held on to the oak banister. White paint had worn off and bare wood showed through in streaks. Had her mother worn off the paint from years of walking down these stairs? Slowly, she descended the steps, massaging the smooth wood.
    The stairs turned and deposited her into the living room. A large painting of a black stallion with a white blaze and white stockings hung on the main wall, centered above the sofa. Maya stepped closer, captivated by the sweeping ebony brushstrokes of the mane, the arched neck, and the defiance in the horse’s posture. She leaned forward, her eyes following the thick, sculpted swirls of the oil paints. She took a deep breath, already loving this place, and turned to look at the rest of the room.
    Knickknacks crowded the end tables and threatened to topple at the slightest nudge. The furniture looked worn but comfortable. The wood floors had yellowed with aged varnish. A corner fireplace made from river stones angled across two walls and was crowned with a dark soot halo. On either side of the hearth, the walls held a hodgepodge of photos of her mother on horseback,holding up prizes for one competition or another: ribbons, fancy belt buckles, and trophies. In one of the photos, a younger Golly sat at her mother’s feet. Maya picked up a framed photo from a table. Her mother held a four-year-old Maya in her arms and a boy about the same age. Who was he?
    As Maya’s eyes flitted from picture to picture, she heard Moose’s voice in the next room and tiptoed out of the living room and closer to the kitchen door to eavesdrop.
    â€œI just can’t forget what the lawyer told us. She should have been coming here regular, every summer. That old hen lied to us. ‘No arrangements for visitation.’ Those were her exact words every time I called. I should have never believed her!”
    â€œNo need to speak ill of the dead,” said Fig. “You hadno reason not to believe her. She hoodwinked us, plain and simple. At least we finally know that Ellie and Greg wanted Maya to spend time with us. It’s just too bad it was so long in coming.”
    â€œIt breaks my heart to have to get rid of her so soon after we just got her back,” said Moose.
    Maya’s brow puckered. Get rid of her? She pushed through the swinging door into the sunny kitchen with its faded blue linoleum and yellow cupboards, which needed repainting. Suds and dishes filled one side of the sink, and