“Thinking. Hoping.”
He hauled her into the anonymity of a cluster of people listening to a quartet of carolers. She wanted to ask more about his “hopeful” plan. Hank always had contingencies lined up for emergencies and this most definitely qualified. She chewed her lip and waited while he stared with searching eyes along the street vendors and stalls to where their pursuer stood by a living crèche, no longer chasing them for the moment, thank heavens.
Hank dipped his face to her ear, his smile brushing her cheek. “Forget worrying about getting caught stealing a car or walking. I’ve just found our ride.”
“You have?” Of course he had. When had Hank ever faltered? Apparently she was the only one who had fears and doubts. “I wouldn’t have thought a village this small would have two car-rental places.”
“Oh, it doesn’t have another car-rental place.” His smile caressed her cheek, swirling away some doubts but stirring up a lot more questions.
He pointed toward a line of decked-out sleighs.
Ginger tugged the sleigh blanket over her legs to ward off the chill, bells jingling with each step of the two horses’ feet through the snowy landscape. Hank had estimated an hour from the village to the safe house by this mode of transportation, which meant they should be arriving in no more than fifteen minutes since he’d paid the driver extra to haul butt.
So far, so good. No sign of their lurking bad guy buddy from the village, and the sleigh ride actually provided a bit of anonymity from the main thoroughfare.
Hank’s warm frame radiated heat beside her, close, so close, at times she thought he might even kiss her again. Her heart kicked up pace faster than the cars swishing past on the country road beyond the mask of pine trees.
Their driver seemed to be making good time, happily humming along atonally to whatever he was listening to on the headphones peeking from under his cap.
The snow-laden trees passed in a blur, ancient cottages tucked in the woods at unexpected places, their chimneys puffing smoke into the evening air.
“Here,” Hank growled low, pressing something solid into her hand. “You may need this.”
She looked down to find a revolver in her hand. “What do you mean? The e-mail said all clear at the safe house. I can understand why you didn’t want to risk any stranger coming to pick us up. But what’s wrong with us going to a known entity?”
“Contingency plan.” He kept his voice low, soft enough not to be overheard by the iPod-addicted driver in the seat in front of them. “If something happens to me.”
She swayed, the thought, well, unthinkable. Her fingers closed around the weapon, which also happened to cause them to clench around his hand. “All right.”
“Do you know how to use it?”
She welcomed the smile his question brought. “I was shooting targets in the woods with my daddy before I got my driver’s license.”
He winked and released the gun. The ominous black weapon rested in her lap now instead of her precious crèche, which lay within reach at her booted feet. She covered the gun with the red plaid blanket, then reached to secure her hood around her head while the wind combined with their brisk ride to try and tear off the cover.
Hank flipped up the collar of his coat to protect his ears—simple, but efficient, much like the no-frills man himself. “We don’t have much time left to talk, Ginger. Tell me more about the family crèche there. Is that something from your Dutch grandma’s side of the family?”
“No, actually, it’s a piece from Benjamin’s family.”
“Do you remember anything more?” He kept one gloved hand in his coat pocket—undoubtedly around his gun—while the other stayed around her.
“I seem to recall his father bought it for his mother for Christmas about fifty years ago.”
“Anything else?”
“What are you getting at?” She rubbed her hands together under the blanket, then placed them back on the weapon.
“Have you considered that someone may want the crèche instead of you? You said yourself it’s a priceless piece of art.”
“Oh, wow,” she stared at the velvet purse at her feet. “Wow. That makes an obvious kind of sense. Does it have any bearing on what we should do today?”
He brushed at a branch that came close to swatting their heads. Snow still showered down around them, drifts building in the sparsely populated outlying area of the village. “My gut’s telling me the safe house really is our best bet.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? Okay? No questions about whether or not there are moles on the inside waiting there to shoot you since I’ve given you this gun?” He glanced down at the lump where the blanket covered the weapon.
“If your instincts tell you the odds are better for us to go in, then I trust you.”