With His Boots On

IN THE EAST, a faint rose and gold ethereal light hinted at dawn breaking through the deep indigo of the night. Nathaniel Everett sat still on the weathered porch steps of the ranch house, his eyes fixed upon the distant horizon where the jagged silhouettes of the Sawtooth Mountains stood etched against the brightening firmament. The air hung still and cool around him, carrying the mingled scents of sage and pine from the surrounding foothills.

Within the house behind him, the old man lay dying.

Nathaniel rolled a cigarette, the ritual offering a distraction from the weight pressing upon his chest. Three nights he had held his vigil, watching as his father’s formidable frame diminished beneath the quilt, like a mountain eroding beneath the relentless assault of time. Jack Everett, who had broken wild horses well into his sixtieth year, who had weathered drought and blizzard with equal stoicism, now struggled for each shallow breath.

The screen door creaked behind him.

“He’s asking for you,” Nathaniel’s mother, Martha, said, her voice betraying the exhaustion of sleepless nights. “And for his boots.”

Nathaniel nodded, exhaling a plume of smoke that dissipated in the pale pre-dawn light. He crushed the half-finished cigarette beneath his heel and rose, his joints protesting after hours of stillness.

The bedroom smelled of camphor and looming mortality. A single lamp cast amber shadows across the austere furnishings. Jack lay propped against pillows, his once-powerful hands now trembling atop the quilt. Those hands had taught Nathaniel everything—how to ride, rope, mend fence. They had sometimes administered stern correction, but had never failed him.

“Boy,” Jack whispered, his voice a dry husk of its former resonance. “My boots.”

Nathaniel glanced toward the corner where the old man’s riding boots stood—custom-made Justins, the leather cracked and shaped by decades of use, standing sentinel like faithful dogs awaiting their master’s command.

“You planning on going somewhere, old man?” Nathaniel attempted levity, though his voice betrayed him.

A brief softening of Jack’s trail-hardened features emerged. “A man ought to meet his Maker standing up.”

Nathaniel retrieved the boots, their familiar weight suddenly unbearable in his hands. He sat at the bedside, facing the impossible task before him. Jack could no more stand in these boots than fly to dawn’s waning moon. Yet Nathaniel understood with perfect clarity what his father asked—not for physical possibility, but for the dignity of metaphor.

“Let me help you with these,” Nathaniel said, lifting his father’s right foot.

The old man’s ankles had grown thin as a bird’s, the skin mottled and cool to the touch. With careful movements, Nathaniel worked the first boot onto his father’s foot, then the second. The boots hung loose, but they were on.

Jack settled back against the pillows, his breathing laborious but somehow more even than before. He fixed Nathaniel with eyes that, despite the encroaching shadow of death, remained as clear and penetrating as mountain lakes.

“Your grandfather told me once,” Jack said, each word measured, “that the measure of a man isn’t how he falls, but if he stands back up afterward.” He paused, gathering strength. “Some falls, though, there’s no getting up from. And that’s when it matters most to face it standing.”

Nathaniel gripped his father’s hand, feeling the bones beneath the skin, delicate as kindling.

“I understand, Pa.”

Through the window, the first true light of dawn illuminated the glass, painting the room in soft amber tones. Jack’s gaze drifted toward this new light, and something in his expression shifted—a recognition, perhaps, or a welcome.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I got caught in that norther’ up in Dakota Territory?” Jack asked, his voice stronger, animated by memory.

“No, sir, I don’t believe you did,” Nathaniel said, though he had heard the tale countless times…

Twenty years prior, Nathaniel had witnessed his father’s unyielding strength for the first time. The memory etched itself into his consciousness with the permanence of a brand upon hide. A spring flood had washed out the eastern pasture fence, and a dozen yearling heifers had wandered close to Widow’s Gorge. Nathaniel, barely thirteen, had accompanied his father to retrieve the wayward cattle.

The sky that day loomed slate-gray and threatening, pregnant with undelivered rain. They rode in silence, father and son, across terrain that undulated like a restless sea frozen in time. Scrub oak and juniper dotted the landscape, twisted sentinels bent by decades of prevailing wind, their gnarled limbs testifying to the harsh dominion of this unforgiving country.

When they reached the gorge’s edge, they found three heifers stranded on a narrow shelf thirty feet below the rim. Another had already fallen to its death on the rocks another hundred feet below, its broken form a dark smudge against the pale limestone.

“Hold my horse,” Jack said, dismounting and removing his gloves. No hesitation marked his movements, no calculation of risk versus reward. Cattle had to be saved, and that singular fact determined his course.

Nathaniel watched, heart lodged in his throat, as his father lowered himself over the edge. He descended, testing each handhold, each foothold, his movements speaking of absolute control. When he reached the terrified heifers, he spoke to them in low, reassuring tones that carried up to where Nathaniel stood trembling.

One by one, Jack guided the cattle along the narrow shelf to a point where the gorge wall eased some. When the last heifer had scrambled to safety, Jack ascended. Halfway up, a handhold crumbled beneath his grip. For one infinite moment, he hung suspended by a single arm, legs dangling over the abyss.

Nathaniel had never forgotten the look on his father’s face in that moment—not fear, but a kind of fierce concentration, as if death was just another adversary to be reckoned with and defeated. With thoughtful calm, Jack had found another place for his hand and continued his climb.

Later, when they rode home beneath clearing skies, Nathaniel had asked, “Weren’t you scared, Pa?”

Jack considered the question with the seriousness he gave all his son’s inquiries. “Fear’s just a feeling,” he said, at last. “Feelings come and go. A man decides what he does with them.”

Now, in the gathering dawn light, Nathaniel recalled those words as he watched his father’s labored breathing. Jack had fallen quiet, the “norther up in Dakota Territory” story left unfinished, but his eyes remained fixed on Nathaniel with unwavering intensity.

“Your mother,” Jack said suddenly, his voice barely audible. “She worried I’d make you too hard.”

Nathaniel felt unexpected tears burn behind his eyes. “Ma never understood that kind of thing was necessary out here.”

“She understood more than you think,” Jack said, each word costing him a visible effort. “She understood there’s strength in gentleness, too. Something I never quite mastered.”

Outside, the first bird song heralded the approaching day. A meadowlark’s fluid notes filtered through the window, nature’s counterpoint to the human drama unfolding within.

“You remember when that drifter came through?” Jack asked. “The one with the Morgan stallion he was mistreating?”

Nathaniel nodded. The incident had occurred when he was fifteen. A stranger had arrived at the ranch, his magnificent Morgan stallion showing signs of abuse—whip welts across its haunches, a cruelly tight bit having lacerated the corners of its mouth.

“You wanted to thrash him right there in the yard,” Nathaniel said.

Jack’s lips twitched into a jagged smile. “And your mother stopped me. Made me offer to buy that horse instead.” He paused, gathering breath. “Wisest thing I ever did, listening to her. That horse sired half the best stock we ever raised.”

Martha appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray with coffee and biscuits. Her eyes widened at the sight of Jack’s booted feet, but she made no comment as she set the tray beside the bed.

“You should eat something, Nathaniel,” she said, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“Later,” he promised, not taking his eyes from his father.

After Martha had withdrawn, Jack said, “She’s carried a heavy load, that woman. Being married to me. Being married to this land.”

“She never complained.”

“No,” Jack agreed. “Not her way.” He shifted, wincing. “When I’m gone—”

“Pa—”

“When I’m gone,” Jack said, continuing with quiet authority, “you’ll need to decide what kind of man you want to be. The land doesn’t care one way or another. It’ll break you or sustain you, regardless.”

Nathaniel swallowed hard. “I learned from the best.”

“You learned from a stubborn old mule,” Jack said, correcting him. “There’s better ways than mine. Ways that don’t demand you to stand alone against everything.”

Through the window, the sky had lightened to a pale lavender, streaked with bands of gold. The dark silhouettes of pine trees along the ridge emerged from shadow, gaining substance as the day advanced.

“Help me up,” Jack blurted.

“Pa, I don’t think—”

“Help me up,” Jack said again, his voice regaining some of its former command.

With infinite care, Nathaniel slid his arms beneath his father’s shoulders, supporting him as Jack struggled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. The effort cost him dearly; sweat beaded on his forehead, and his breathing came in ragged gasps.

“The window,” Jack said. “I want to see the dawn.”

Nathaniel helped his father to stand, bearing most of his weight. Together, they shuffled the few steps to the window, where Jack leaned against the sill. His booted feet, though unsteady, bore his diminished weight.

The eastern sky blazed now with the first rays of direct sunlight, transforming the distant peaks from shadow to substance. Long fingers of gold reached across the valley, touching first the highest ridges, then spreading downward like honey poured from an invisible hand. The ranch buildings, the fences, the grazing pastures—all emerged from darkness into clarifying light.

“Beautiful,” Jack whispered. “God’s country.”

They stood together, father and son, until Jack’s strength failed. Nathaniel guided him back to the bed, easing him down against the pillows. But Jack caught his arm, his grip strong.

“Leave them on,” he said, glancing down at his boots.

Nathaniel nodded, understanding.

“You know what your grandfather used to say about boots?” Jack asked, his voice fading.

“No, sir.”

“He said a man’s boots tell his whole story. Where he’s been. What kind of work he does. Whether he stands up straight or leans against something.”

Nathaniel looked down at his father’s boots, at the worn leather molded by decades of use. They told a story indeed—of countless miles ridden, of calves pulled in spring snow, of wedding dances and funeral processions, of a life lived under an uncompromising code.

“I reckon these boots have quite a tale to tell,” Nathaniel said.

Jack’s eyes drifted closed, his energy spent. “Not the boots, son,” he murmured. “The man wearing them.”

As the new day asserted its dominion outside, Jack Everett slipped into sleep, his breathing shallow but steady. Nathaniel maintained his vigil beside the bed, watching as golden light filled the room, illuminating dust particles that danced like small galaxies in the morning air.

He knew with certainty that his father would not see another dawn. But he also knew that when Jack Everett departed this world, he would do so as he had lived—standing tall in his own estimation, unbowed by circumstance, with his boots on.

And in that knowledge, Nathaniel found a peculiar peace.