The Guardian (15 page)

Black Sun listened in grim silence as Charity told him how close the braves had come to finding her hiding place. He said little in return except to relate, in labored phrases, how he'd come to be shot while he was escaping with his horses. Only the storm had kept his pursuers from finding him in the darkness.

“We have to get away from here,” she said. “Now that it's light, they could already be looking for us. Can you ride?”

“I can—once we get this arrow out and the bleeding stopped—won't be much good till then.”

Charity nodded. “Then we'd best start looking for a place to do it.”

The next few hours passed in a blur. There was the frantic search through the wooded foothills that ended, finally, beside a gurgling stream overhung by a thicket of willows. There was Black Sun's gasp of restrained agony as she pulled the arrow shaft out of his shoulder, and the nightmarish spurt of blood—so much blood.

It had taken a small eternity to stop the bleeding. Even with Black Sun trying to soothe her fears by telling her the blood flow was cleaning out the wound, Charity had been terrified that he would bleed to death.
She had closed her eyes and prayed as she'd held compresses of herbs and cloth tightly against both sides of his shoulder. She had come so close to losing him last night. She could not lose him now.

After the wound had been packed with crushed elder bark and tightly wrapped with strips salvaged from Charity's petticoat, Black Sun had rested only for as long as it took for her to nurse Annie. Then he'd insisted that they move on.

Now, as the sun rose in the sky, she rode behind him on the tall dun horse, her arms wrapped around his waist to keep him awake and upright. He was still in some pain and so weak that he swayed with every turn of the horse. She gripped him tightly, holding him close to her, as if she could will her own strength to flow into his body. It was all she could do to keep herself from tracing a line of kisses down his taut, golden back. Soon, when they parted, she would lose him for good. But for now he was her own, and she would savor every moment of their time together.

He smelled of rain and blood, but the warmth and color had returned to his skin. Black Sun was strong, Charity reassured herself. He would heal in no time at all. By the time they found a place where he could safely leave her, he would be entirely well. The thought was bittersweet.

Their senses were on constant alert for signs of the Blackfoot, but aside from the distant smoke of their morning campfires, there was no sign of them. Had the
braves given up the chase and decided to move on with the rest of the band? There was no safe way to find out, but Black Sun pushed the horses as if he expected the warriors to appear on the horizon at any time.

He pushed himself, as well, so hard that Charity worried about him. He needed rest, but until they were safely out of Blackfoot territory, there could be no rest for either of them.

Trussed in her cradleboard and lulled by the motion of the horse, Annie was remarkably content. Charity nursed her on horseback, cradling her against Black Sun's solid back. The moments passed sweetly then, with the three of them riding close together, fitted like spoons. Charity etched the details into her memory—the green-gold hues of spring sunlight and fresh sprouting grass, the motion of the horse, the tug of the baby's mouth at her breast, the warm nesting of her knees against the backs of Black Sun's legs.

Late in the day, they skirted a valley where the charred remains of five wagons stood in a blackened circle, with fresh spring grass already sprouting up around them. Charity's breath jerked in surprise as she realized she was looking at her own wagon train. She had pushed the massacre so far into the hollows of her memory that, until now, it was almost as if it had never happened. But the sight of those wagons brought it all back—the screams, the smoke, the terror. She began to tremble.

“Don't look,” Black Sun said, turning the horse
away from the scene. “It's over. There's nothing you can do.”

But Charity did look. She could not help but see the debris that was scattered in the grass—tools, burned books, odds and ends that the Blackfoot hadn't judged worth taking. However she glimpsed no bodies, not even bones. Either they'd been dragged off by wild animals or some kindly soul had come along and buried them all. That, or the well-nourished grass had simply grown up and covered them.

“Did you love your husband?” Black Sun asked. They were riding away from the scene of the tragedy now. “I know I have no right to ask, but—”

“My husband was almost a stranger to me,” Charity said. “Now that he's gone, it feels as if I never knew him. He was old enough to be my father, and very strict. He didn't allow me to laugh or wear bright colors or sing anything but hymns. And he could be…harsh, especially when I didn't obey him fast enough.”

“He hit you? Beat you?” His voice echoed the horror of his past, and she knew he was thinking of his stepfather.

“Not…the way your mother was beaten, no. Just enough to put me in my place, or so he said. Silas had very strong ideas about a woman's place and how to keep her there.” A broken sob escaped Charity's throat and she began to tremble again. How many times had she told herself that her marriage to Silas was a proper
one—that she needed the discipline, deserved the punishment he meted out? How long had she denied, even to herself, that she was miserable?

“It's my turn to ask the questions now,” Black Sun said. “Tell me about your life, Charity. I need to know what brought you here…to me.”

As the sun crept westward, she told him everything—her happy childhood, the tragic accident that had killed her parents and the dreary adolescence with her fanatical grandparents that had led, ultimately, to her marriage. “I wanted happiness again,” she said. “I wanted love. But those things were too much to ask of a man who belonged only to his God.”

By now they had left the valley of death far behind. The sun lay low above the peaks, its slanted rays touching the clouds with flame. Black Sun was silent—resting, perhaps, or waiting for her to tell him more.

But the remainder of the story was more than she could put into words. Her time in the wilderness with Black Sun had opened her to the strong, self-reliant, loving woman she was meant to be. She could never go back to the person she'd been, or to the bleak life she'd led before coming west. And she could never go back, Charity realized, to the confines of so-called decent society with its rules, prejudices and expectations of women. Not even gold would buy her the freedom she wanted for herself—and ultimately, for Annie.

How could she say those things to Black Sun, after the promise he'd forced her to make? How could she
tell him that she wanted to stay with him, to share his days and nights and to raise their children here, in his country, surrounded by the sweep of open sky and towering mountains?

If you come back, it will be as an enemy.

His words echoed in her memory, haunting in their bitterness. How could she reach beyond his hatred for whites and show him that she was not the enemy? There were so many things to resolve, and they had so little time left together.

Black Sun's muscles tensed, snapping Charity's thoughts back to their present danger. His attention, she realized, was fixed on something in a grassy clearing beyond the trees. Nudging the horse to a trot, he moved closer. Through the deepening twilight Charity could see the recent remains of a small camp, with circles of flattened yellow grass where the teepees had stood. Her pulse leaped in alarm, but Black Sun did not appear to be worried.

“Cheyenne,” he said, reading evidence that meant nothing to Charity. “Allies and brothers of my people. We can rest here in safety.”

“And the Blackfoot?” Charity asked, scarcely daring to believe him.

“They won't enter Cheyenne hunting territory. It's too risky for them. We can make camp right here.”

They tethered the horses and spread the large buffalo robe on the ground beneath a thicket of alders. While Charity nursed Annie and put her to sleep in her
cradleboard, Black Sun kindled a small but cheerful fire, the first they'd enjoyed in all their time together.

They were too weary to prepare a meal. To keep up their strength, they chewed a few slivers of the smoked antelope meat. By then it had grown dark outside the circle of their firelight.

Black Sun's face was lined with fatigue. He made a final check of the horses, then stretched out on the buffalo robe and fell instantly asleep. Too agitated to close her eyes, Charity sat cross-legged next to the fire, savoring its warmth as the flames flickered down to glowing coals. Windswept clouds drifted across the face of the waning moon, shadowing a night that was quiet except for the silken rustle of leaves, the whispery music of insects and the deep, even cadence of Black Sun's breathing. He was alive, they were safe, and they were together. For those three things, she was grateful to the point of tears.

Giving in at last to her own weariness, she stretched out next to him on the buffalo robe and pulled the smaller, softer robe over the two of them. His body was warm in the chilly darkness. She nestled close, fitting her own curves and hollows against his. He stirred, sighed and pulled her closer. It was heaven, she thought, lying here in the darkness, enfolded in his sweet masculine strength, protected and protecting. For tonight, it was everything she could wish.

As she lay with her hips curving into his, she felt the hard, swelling rise beneath his loincloth. Instinctively
her hand found him beneath the soft leather. She touched him in wonder, feeling her own moisture flow as she stroked him, wanting more of him, all of him.

He groaned, pushing upward against her touch.

“No,” she murmured, pressing his chest down with her free hand. “Your wound—”

“I want you, Charity.” His voice was raw with need.

Rising above him, she bent down and kissed his mouth. “Lie still, then,” she whispered. “I have an idea.”

His shaft jutted upward, hard and quivering, the moist, sculpted head catching a glint of moonlight. Straddling his hips with her knees, she lowered herself onto him. He gasped as he slid inside her. His hands seized her hips, pulling her all the way down, filling the place that was made for him. Feeling the contact in every exquisite nerve, she began to move. There was no thunder here in the peaceful darkness, no sacred cave, no legend; only a man and woman who needed each other, loving, moving and thrusting until their spirits spun together and burst in an explosion like a sky full of shooting stars.

 

B
LACK
S
UN AWOKE
shuddering in the dull gray light before dawn. For the space of a long breath, he lay still, struggling against the dream that had gripped him with the clarity of a vision.

In the dream he had returned to the sacred canyon to find it utterly changed. The cliffs had fallen into
heaps of rubble that lay on the canyon floor. The sacred cave and the waterfall had been blasted away, the creek diverted into channels that were banked with ugly heaps of washed gravel.

The animals and birds that had once found safety in the canyon had either fled or died. In their places, white men swarmed like ants, armed with picks and shovels and kegs of exploding powder. Like ants, they had tunneled into the canyon walls, blasting away hunks of the glistening buff-colored stone and carrying it off in their wagons.

The stench that rose above the canyon was the stench of greed as the whites scrambled for gold, hoarding it, fighting for it, dying for it.

Still in shock, Black Sun sat up. He had known, of course, that there was gold in the canyon. But since gold was of no value to his people, he had given it little thought. White men, however, were crazy for gold. If they learned there was gold in the canyon, they would come swarming from all directions. And they would destroy everything.

Was this his vision? This horror that had been as real as anything he had ever experienced?

Taking care not to wake Charity, he eased himself to his feet. His shoulder was stiff and sore, but he felt no sign of fever in the wound. It would heal soon enough. The dream, however, haunted him as if it had been seared into his brain. He had fasted and prayed for a vision that would bind him to his people. Was this
his answer—this nightmare of the future, connecting him not to the Arapaho but to the canyon?

Still dazed, he crossed the clearing and checked the horses, seeking comfort in their simple, solid presence. If the dream had been his vision, what did it mean? Was it the canyon's destiny to be destroyed by gold-seeking whites—or would it be his own duty to save it?

Charity was still sleeping when he returned, her sun-colored curls spilling across the buffalo robe. He studied the rose-gold beauty of her sleeping face, remembering the courage and resourcefulness she had summoned to save his life yesterday and the unbridled passion of last night's loving. She was the most magnificent woman he had ever known, and he could no longer imagine life without her. Somehow, Black Sun thought, he had to find a way to make that life possible.

The cradleboard was propped against a nearby log, where Charity could easily reach it in the night. Annie was awake, not fussing, but lying contentedly, her round blue eyes gazing at the fringed amulet pouch that dangled a handbreadth from her little flower-bud face.

Black Sun dropped to a crouch beside her. Reaching out, he extended his forefinger and felt a surge of warmth when her tiny pink fist closed around it.

“Good morning, Annie,” he greeted her solemnly. “Are you ready for another day on the trail?”

Her pure eyes studied him, innocent but strangely knowing. To amuse her, he nudged the amulet pouch, lifting it slightly to make it swing.

Its dense weight astonished him. What could Charity have put into the pouch that would be so heavy?

Black Sun's spirit darkened as he hefted the deerskin pouch in his palm while his fingers explored the object inside. It was oddly shaped, like the head of a bird—and small, not much bigger than the end joint of his thumb.