blanket and took her mittened hand in his. Whatever concerns had made him anxious on the tower seemed to have evaporated.
The horse trotted out of the square and into a narrow street, edging past a car coming in the other direction. Everywhere were chocolate shops. âItâs good we stopped at four,â James remarked.
âYes, as good as they were, I feel a little ill at the prospect of eating more, at least today. I wonder if Belgians eat chocolates much? Maybe theyâre sick to death of them.â
The driver pointed out a dock. âIf you havenât done a canal tour, this one belongs to my friend. Heâs decided to run on Christmas Dayâfirst tour at noon. After that movie
In Bruges
, everyone comes here at Christmas. He says heâll be rich. Have you seen the movie?â
They were just about to say yes when
bang!
An explosion shattered the air.
The horse whinnied, rising onto its back legs, jolting the carriage.
Bang! Bang!
âGet down! Get down!â James screamed. He pushed Paula back onto the carriage cushions, throwing himself on top of her.
Bang!
Oh my God
, she thought,
gunshots!
The horse bolted now, the carriage jerking forward.
James pushed her off the seat, her arm twisting painfully behind her back as the two of them crashed to the carriage floor. Her head struck the step, and she cried out.
âWhoa! Whoa!â the driver shouted. Paula heard the skid of car tires and the crash of the horseâs hooves on the snowy cobblestones. Jamesâs face was pressed against her own, his breathing panicked as he frantically sought to protect her body with his.
The carriage lurched over a bridge, and as Paulaâs head bounced once more against the carriage step, above her clouds raced by.
âWhoa! Whoa!â the driver shouted again.
A car horn blasted, brakes screeched, a woman screamed, and now the horse itself seemed to be skidding, the carriage rocking precariously as if about to roll over at any moment.
âWhoa! Whoa!â
At last the horse started to slow and came to a stop beneath a tree.
The driverâs face appeared between Paulaâs and the sky, sweat beading on his forehead. He spoke first in Flemish, before remembering they were Anglophones. âOh my God! Are you all right down there?â
âNoâyes!â she said. Not a gunshot, of course not. A car backfiring. That was all. Just a car backfiring.
The driver looked at Jamesâs head, still buried in Paulaâs hair. âAre you sure?â
âWeâre fine,â Paula said, speaking for them both. Should she explain to the driver that James had been in Afghanistan? No, probably not. âCan you take us to the Hotel Ter Brughe?â she asked calmly.
âOf course, of course,â he said. âAnd thereâs no charge for this ride. Iâm so very, very sorry. This has never happened before.â
âItâs okay,â Paula said. âIt couldnât be helped.â
The driver turned back, and she stroked Jamesâs hair. âItâs okay. It was just a car backfiring,â she said trying to infuse her voice with lightness. âBut you are squashing me. Can we get up now?â
Untangling himself from her, he sat back down on the seat. âYou see why I said that last night. About how much someone can change in nine years. Well, welcome to post-traumatic stress disorder, PTSD,â he said bitterly.
He helped her up, and she rubbed the back of her head. âDid I hurt you?â he asked anxiously, running his hand over her hair. âIâm so sorryâyouâre going to have a bump.â
âItâs okay, just stings a bit.â Her arm hurt too, but she decided not to tell him and, flexing it as innocuously as she could, concluded that a swollen elbow was the worst she could expect.
âI feel so stupid.â His face was ashen, and he shook all over. Paula felt a little shaky