Free The Old Willis Place by Mary Downing Hahn Page A

your favorite color?"
    "Blue, green, red—I don't know. I love them all."
    "Mine's purple." She grinned. "How about your favorite food?"
    "Mint chocolate chip ice cream." No hesitation this time. My mouth watered at the memory of double-dip cones on hot summer afternoons, sticky and cold and sweet.
    "Mine's pizza with double cheese and meatballs." Lissa asked a few more questions. Favorite book— Lassie Come-Home for both of us. Favorite candy—Hershey's chocolate almond bars for both of us. Favorite baseball team—the Baltimore Orioles for her and the New York Yankees for me.
    Lissa paused to think. "Who's your favorite actor?"
    Easy, I thought. "Roy Rogers. Georgie and I have seen just about every movie he's ever made."
    Lissa stared at me as if I were crazy. "Roy Rogers isn't a movie star. It's a fast-food place."
    "Roy Rogers is so a movie star," I said, puzzled by her ignorance. What kid didn't love Roy Rogers? How could she confuse him with a fast-food place—whatever that was.
    "His wife is Dale Evans," I went on. "She's in his movies, too. He rides a horse named Trigger, a beautiful golden palomino. This funny old guy, Gabby Hayes, is his sidekick. Sometimes he sings cowboy songs. Surely you've seen his movies...."
    I stopped, embarrassed by the expression on Lissa's face. "Don't you like Westerns?"
    She made a face and shook her head. "They have too much shooting in them. Dad loves Clint Eastwood, though. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, Hang 'Em High, A Fistful of Dollars. He watches them over and over again. But Clint Eastwood doesn't sing cowboy songs."
    It was my turn to stare at Lissa. Who was Clint Eastwood? And just how many years had gone by since Georgie and I had watched Roy Rogers gallop across the desert, chasing cattle rustlers or claim jumpers? More years than I wanted to think about, certainly more than Lissa would believe. Georgie was right. I never should have gotten the two of us into this situation. What had I been thinking?
    I looked toward the woods uneasily. It was late afternoon now, and the air had the chilly edge of fall. Georgie was probably hiding somewhere, too mad to go home. I hated for him to be away after dark. The shed was lonely at night.
    "I'd better find my brother," I told Lissa, anxious to leave before I said any more dumb things.
    "Why was he so mad at you today?" she asked.
    "He doesn't want me to be friends with you," I said. "Because—"
    "I know, I know," Lissa interrupted. "He's scared your parents will find out and punish you."
    I ran my finger around my initials again. If only I were an ordinary girl like Lissa, uncomplicated, with no secrets.
    Lissa jumped to her feet. "Let's go find Georgie together," she said. "I want to talk to him."
    I looked up, surprised by her sudden interest in my brother. "Why?"
    Lissa shrugged. "Maybe if he gets to know me, he'll like me, and then he won't be mad anymore and we can all be friends."
    I wished things were as simple as Lissa thought. Reluctantly I led her down a deer trail into the woods, one of Georgie's and my favorite paths. We saw three or four does and the albino stag flash through the trees ahead, sunlight dappling their flanks.
    Lissa watched them vanish, delighted for even a glimpse. "It's like magic here," she said, "an enchanted forest where anything can happen."
    I looked around, trying to see the familiar woods as Lissa saw them. I'd been here so long I'd gotten used to the trees and the deer, the shadows and sunlight, the slow turn of the years from season to season.
    I smiled. Lissa was certainly right about the farm and its woods and fields—anything could happen here.

Chapter 9
    A few minutes later, Lissa grabbed my arm and pointed. "There he is—see him? In the field."
    At the sound of Lissa's voice, Georgie turned and looked back at us. In his loincloth and war paint, his hair matted with burrs and feathers, he really did look like a wild creature, small and fierce among the towering goldenrod and