The Bridge of Peace by Cindy Woodsmall Page B

anything right, Rosie.” Deborah placed her forehead against the horse’s, waiting on a peaceful thought or answer to float down and rescue her. It didn’t.
    She took a step back, longing to hear a whisper within her own soul. Something faint brushed her awareness. She knew this feeling. In the past this sensation swept over her when Mahlon was nearby, usually when he was watching her from a distance. She’d had it many times, but she didn’t think she’d felt it since he left.
    She stepped out from under the tree and looked up and down Main Street. A couple of women milled about, going nowhere in a hurry, and one man stood at the automated-teller machine outside the bank.
    Mahlon wasn’t there. Part of her wished he was. As much as he’d done to her, the biggest part of her still loved him. How is that possible?
    “Hey, Deborah.”
    She jolted and looked behind her. Jonathan Stoltzfus, Mahlon’s cousin, was astride his chestnut stallion, riding it bareback.
    She wondered how she hadn’t heard his horse coming up the side street behind her. “What are you doing here?”

    Jonathan slid off his horse. “Ada left a message at the shop about an hour ago, saying you guys had a lame horse.” He grinned and straightened his straw hat. “It took me about two, maybe three, seconds to realize there was a wagonload of desserts that needed rescuing.”
    The feeling of being caught in a briar patch eased. “I’m glad to know that I can always depend on you—as long as free desserts are involved.”
    “Never ever forget that, Little Debbie.” He passed her the reins and moved to where Rosie stood. Within moments he had the horse’s knee bent and part of her leg resting on his thigh while he inspected her hoof. “Ya, it’s split and infected. She’ll be out of commission for a while. I should’ve thought to check her shoes when I was at Ada’s three weeks ago.” He stood straight. “So, we need to connect Rosie’s wagon to my horse without making the desserts slide into one another. Up for it?”
    She doubted it. She’d do something stupid and mess everything up again.
    Jonathan ran his hands down Rosie’s shoulder and slowly moved past her fetlock, looking for other signs of injury.
    “Ya. I guess.”
    Jonathan turned to face her. “If Rosie could talk, even she’d sound more confident than that.”
    She shrugged, trying to keep tears at bay.
    He moved closer. “You want to talk about it?”
    “There’s nothing to say that you don’t already know.”
    He lifted her chin, making her look him in the eyes. “We go way back, Deborah. I’d guess I realized you weren’t so bad when I was in eighth grade and put a frog in your dress at school. You must’ve been in third grade at the time, just a little kid, and you didn’t even tell the teacher on me.”
    “Ya.” She remembered feeling the creature wriggle against her back, and she’d run out of the classroom without permission and danced around outside until that frog fell to the ground.
    “Of course”—Jonathan folded his arms—“the day before, you’d used the backside of my homework to draw a picture on.”

    “You’re the one who put it on my desk.”
    “I was busy and just set it down.”
    “And I made it more beautiful with swirly things and hearts and rainbows.”
    “Just what I wanted while standing in front of the class reading the report—the part facing them filled with girly stuff.” He laughed, but she only shrugged. “Come on, Little Debbie. That image is worth a chuckle.”
    “How can I laugh about anything? All of me believed that Mahlon loved me. I thought he wanted a life with me … and every bit of that was a lie.”
    He rubbed his fingers across his shaven face, making a light sandpaper noise as he did. “Like you, I’ve known Mahlon my whole life. He loved you. You’ve got to know that’s true. He was just … too immature and confused to deal with life.”
    When she didn’t answer, he began fastening the