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Maybe you’d like to come along.”
    She looked at him, surprised by the invitation.
    “I think you’d enjoy it,” he added.
    Was he asking her because of another promise to her grandmother?
    “And up that dirt road”—he turned around and pointed in the opposite direction—“is Silver City. It’s a ghost town now, but in its heyday, it was quite the place. We’ll take the boys there, too. Probably in August. It takes about an hour, even though it’s only twenty miles. The road climbs more than six thousand feet in elevation. It’s mighty steep and windy in places. Worth it though. I think you’d enjoy seeing it. Silver City’s a real slice of Idaho history.”
    Karen didn’t want a history lesson. Nor did she want to be some cowboy’s good deed for the day. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anybody.
    That was a lie, and the minute she thought it, she knew it.
    I’m pathetic. I wish I were dead.
    A glaze of unshed tears blurred her vision. She had to turn quickly, before he noticed them.
    “Karen …”
    “What?”
    “I lost my dad when I was sixteen. It was hard, especially since I was such a disappointment to him. I ran with a tough crowd and got into lots of trouble. Bad trouble.” He paused a moment, as if remembering something he’d rather forget. Then he continued, “After Dad died, I left Chicago. Hitchhiked my way west. Wound up in Idaho about a year later.”
    “Chicago?” She turned around to stare at him in disbelief. “You’re from Chicago?” Her gaze traveled the length of him, from the brim of his dusty Stetson to the tips of his well-worn boots.
    “Yeah. Guess there isn’t much of a city kid about me any longer.”
    “Not much.”
    He grinned, apparently amused by her surprise.
    She didn’t think it was funny. “That’s why you run this place for those boys, isn’t it? Because you were in trouble once yourself?”
    His expression sobered. “Partly, yes. I want to help if I can.”
    There was something about his eyes, something about the way he looked at her—was that compassion? It made her feel exposed and vulnerable again. She didn’t like it. And she certainly didn’t want to like him.
    She returned to her horse. “It’s time to go back,” she said as she slipped her foot into the stirrup and stepped up, swinging her right leg over the saddle. Without looking to see if he followed, she started down the trail.
    Running away. These days, it seemed, she was always running away from something.
    Sunday, September 27, 1936
    Dear Diary,
    I love Indian summer. The days are warm and golden, and the nights are crisp. The leaves crunch beneath my feet when I go for walks, and flocks of ducks and geese fly overhead in enormous V formations, honking and quacking.
    Papa invited Mikkel to join us for a picnic after church today, and he accepted. We went to the Snake River where we spread blankets in the shade of some huge old trees. Sophia looked stunning in the rose pink dress Mama made for her. I am certain Mikkel will pay her a call soon. I am doing my best not to be disappointed and to accept it as God’s will.
    I have learned much on that subject since Mikkel came to pastor our church, but not nearly enough to fully understand what God expects of me.
    I suppose I should write his name as Pastor Christiansen in these pages. I have no right to be so familiar, even in this most secret and private place. Especially since it appears we shall never be more than friends.
    And I do feel he has become a dear friend. He was very relaxed today, and I think we were privileged to get a glimpse of the real Mikkel Christiansen. Not at all reserved and stuffy as some ministers can be nor so heavenly minded as to be no earthly good, as I have heard Papa say about others.
    Mikkel visited with Mama and Papa, answering lots of questions about himself. His parents were born in Denmark and came to America as newlyweds. They settled in Wisconsin, which is where Mikkel was born and raised.