The Guardian (7 page)

Charity strained her ears, but she could hear nothing. It was then she realized that a hush had fallen over the canyon. The birds had stopped singing. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Instinctively she dropped to a crouch beside the cradleboard, ready to snatch up her baby and run. But Black Sun's light touch on her shoulder warned her not to move.

Following the direction of his gaze, she looked back through the trees, the way they'd come. Along the edge of the hollow where they'd spent the night, slender, naked brown forms were moving through the trees. Charity's heart lurched as she recognized the young braves who'd wiped out the wagon train.

Now she could hear them. Their voices carried up the slope—the precariously pitched voices of boys who were not quite men. Clearly they thought they had little to fear, for they were making no effort to be quiet. Two of them seemed to be arguing. Charity could make no sense of their language, but Black Sun, listening intently, seemed to understand enough to get the gist of what was being said. He glanced down at Charity
where she crouched with her baby. “They found the ponies.” He practically mouthed the words, his voice scarcely audible. “Some of the boys want to go up the canyon to see if there are more horses. The tall one is saying that this is sacred ground, that they should turn back.” His hand fingered the haft of his long-bladed hunting knife. “Let us hope they listen to the voice of wisdom.”

The air hung in stillness beneath the darkening sky, leaden and dangerous. Thunder rumbled faintly over the western mountains. Fear was a taste in Charity's mouth. If the young Blackfoot picked up their trail, even Black Sun would be no match for a dozen reckless braves. They would fall on him like a pack of dogs, and once he was overpowered or killed, she and Annie would have no chance at all.

As if sensing her fear, Annie began to whimper. Black Sun shot Charity an alarmed glance. “Keep her quiet!” he whispered. But in spite of Charity's efforts to nurse her, the baby continued to fuss. For the moment, the voices of the arguing braves kept them from hearing her. But that, Charity knew, could swiftly change. And if the Blackfoot discovered their presence… Her blood ran cold at the thought of what they might do.

Gulping back her terror, she raised the cradleboard to her shoulder and began to hum softly in Annie's ear, much as Black Sun had done. But the tension had clearly affected the baby. Her whimpers grew more agitated, threatening to erupt into all-out howls.

“Can't you keep her still?” Black Sun's eyes glittered with desperation.

“I'm trying!” Charity muttered, struggling to maneuver the cradleboard so that Annie could nurse. She managed to work the front of the buckskin shirt open to offer her breast, but Annie would have none of it. Her head rolled back and forth in agitation. The color deepened in her puckered face. Her chest jerked in a rising crescendo of sobs.

Black Sun turned away with a sharp exhalation. Moving cautiously, he withdrew his bow and his quiver of arrows from the pack and slipped them over his shoulder. “Stay here and keep quiet,” he hissed. “If they come for us, I'll try to draw them away. While they're busy with me, you run. Get as far away as you can, and don't look back!”

Charity's gaze followed him as he darted off through the trees, moving like a shadow across the rocky slope. He was risking his life for her and Annie, she knew. If the young braves heard the baby, or decided to venture into the canyon in search of more horses, he would stand against them alone with his arrows and his knife—all to buy time for her and her baby to escape.

How could she not trust such a man?

Annie was still fussing and refusing to nurse. Charity stroked her face, tickling and coaxing, but to no avail. She tried covering her lightly with the buffalo robe to muffle the sound, but the stuffy darkness over her face only frightened Annie and made her cry harder.

Black Sun had reached an outcrop of rocks. He crouched behind a boulder gripping his bow, one flint-tipped arrow nocked and ready to fly. He might kill one or two of the braves, but in the end there would be too many for him. Charity could only pray that, if they attacked, he might be lucky enough to die fighting.

If they survived this day, Charity vowed, she would make certain that Annie never forgot the man who had saved them.

Shadows deepened in the canyon as the clouds boiled above the ledges. The gloom only heightened the feeling of danger. In the hollow below, the young Blackfoot were still arguing. The braves had arrived only moments ago, but time had crawled at such an agonizing pace that, to Charity, it could have been hours.

She rocked Annie against her pounding heart. “Hush…” she whispered, sick with fear. “It's all right, Little One. Don't—”

Annie's howl split the leaden air, startling a dove from its perch above them. The bird shot upward in an explosion of fluttering wings.

In the hollow, the young braves had fallen silent. As Charity clutched the baby frantically to her breast, one of them pointed to the spot from which the bird had flown. With their bows, they moved up the hillside. Only the tall one who had argued for leaving the canyon hung back.

Hunkering close to the ground, Charity crawled be
neath a chokecherry thicket. Branches scratched her face and arms as she moved deeper, one hand shielding Annie from harm. Her daughter had stopped crying, but the damage had been done. The braves were coming up the trail, straight toward their hiding place.

Through the tangle of budding foliage, Charity caught a glimpse of Black Sun in the rocks. The string of his bow was drawn back, the point of the arrow aimed at the warrior in the lead. As soon as that arrow found its mark, the Blackfoot would be after him, leaving her with no choice except to run. And run she would. Whatever the cost, she had to save her baby.

The braves were coming closer. Now, through the brush, Charity could see their faces. How young they were—no more than sixteen or seventeen, she estimated. But the blood of her husband and her companions was on their hands and, given the chance, they would not hesitate to kill again.

The darkened air was electric with danger. Charity could feel the hair prickling on the back of her neck. Annie had begun to whimper. One of the warriors glanced up, alerted by the sound. Black Sun's arm tensed, pulling the bowstring back for release.

At that instant a huge lightning bolt struck a dead pine that jutted above the ledges. The accompanying boom shattered the air and shook the earth. Charity felt it all the way to her bones. She smelled it. She tasted the scorched air on her tongue.

As she cowered beneath the chokecherry bush with
Annie clutched to her breast, only one thought, defying all reason, flashed through her brain.

The great Thunderbird's spirit has returned to the canyon.

T
HE ECHO
of the thunderclap ricocheted off the canyon walls, halting the young Blackfoot in their tracks. They stood frozen in shock as lightning forked across the sky a second time. The white-hot bolt struck somewhere above the cliffs, sending an electric ripple through the ground. Charity felt it pass through her body as she crouched under the chokecherry bush, clasping Annie in her arms and wondering if they were going to die.

She'd been intrigued by Black Sun's story of the great Thunderbird returning to the canyon every spring, but had dismissed it as a charming legend. In this terror-struck moment, however, she was prepared to believe everything she'd heard.

As a second deafening thunderclap rumbled down the canyon, the young Blackfoot wheeled and took to their heels. All their manly bravado evaporated as they fled the hollow like a troop of boys who'd just prodded a hornets' nest.

Charity lay still, protecting Annie with her body as the last rumble died away. The rain that followed was
no more than a silken drizzle. The drops felt gentle on her skin, like the touch of a soothing hand.

Slowly she eased herself away from Annie and sat up. Across the slope, behind the rocks, Black Sun had lowered his bow. He was gazing up toward her, a stunned look on his face. He had been as frightened as she was, Charity realized, and he shared her amazement that they were alive and safe.

She struggled to stand, but he motioned for her to keep still. Sheet lightning danced through the clouds beyond the canyon as they waited to make sure the Blackfoot were really gone. Thunder rolled like a distant sigh above the canyon walls.

The rain had dissolved to a shimmering mist by the time Black Sun moved out from behind the rocks and made his way toward Charity's hiding place. Laying the cradleboard on a bed of soft leaves, Charity rose shakily to her feet. Through the mist, she could see him coming toward her, tall and broad-shouldered, powerful in face and form, just as the great Thunderbird would have been in the story when he took the shape of a man and came down to walk upon the earth. And the woman who waited for him here in the sacred canyon would have been beautiful—not burned and bruised and rain-soaked, her body stretched and sagging from childbirth and her hair hanging in colorless, dirty strings over her bloodshot eyes.

But it was only a story, Charity reminded herself. In her own reality, her appearance didn't matter. Black
Sun was not the least interested in her as a woman. He had told her that much himself.

As for her feelings toward him, she was grateful, of course. But beyond that, he was merely her rescuer, the key to getting herself and her daughter back to the civilized world—the
safe
world, with solid walls, locked doors and warm beds, a world with proper meals served on tables set with plates, bowls, cups and utensils, a world where no dark-skinned savages lurked in the trees waiting to murder her and her loved ones.

That was the world she wanted for herself and for Annie—the world that Black Sun hated to the core of his being.

She waited in the thicket as he came up the hill, her mouth dry, her knees as treacherous as jelly beneath the buckskin fringe. His features were arranged in their customary scowl, but when Charity looked at him, she sensed—or perhaps only imagined—a faint luminosity radiating from his face, as if the lightning had passed through his body and left traces of its glow.

The illusion lasted no longer than the space of a heartbeat. Black Sun glanced down the hill toward the hollow, and when he looked back at her, the light was gone. Now he only looked tired and badly shaken. Charity gazed up at him, overcome by the thought of what this man had nearly sacrificed.

“If those Blackfoot had attacked, you would have died to save us,” she said, fumbling for words. “I…don't know how to thank you.”

Black Sun's scowl deepened. “Since they didn't attack, and since I didn't die, there's no need for your gratitude.”

“Are you too proud to accept the thanks of a white woman?”

He scooped up the bundled gear. “Let's get moving,” he said. “Are you strong enough to carry your baby?”

“You didn't answer my question.” Charity gathered up Annie's cradleboard and stood holding her. Black Sun shot her a withering look.

“Pride is a waste. I did what was required.” He started up the trail, moving at a slow enough pace for her to follow, but not looking back at her. With a weary sigh, Charity trudged after him.

“Do you think the Blackfoot will come back?” She spoke to break the silence between them.

“Not if they were as frightened as I was.”

His admission startled her. “It was only a thunderstorm,” she insisted, taking refuge in reason now that the danger was past. “Wasn't it?”

He climbed in stubborn silence. Balancing the cradleboard on her hip, Charity watched silvery streams of rainwater trickle off his hair and down the curve of his sinewy back. Long moments passed before he spoke.

“With every step I take on this sacred ground, I ask forgiveness. I will continue to ask forgiveness until we are gone from here.”

Charity's heart skipped. “Then it wasn't just a story you told me, was it? The legend—you believe it's true!”

“True?” He sighed. “Not exactly true in the way I told you. But there's a guardian spirit here, a power that lives in the earth, the trees, the water and the air. I respect that power. So should you. Do you understand?”

“I…want to understand.” Charity's breath came in ragged gasps as she toiled up the slope. “I'm trying to understand.”

Pausing, he turned around, lifted the cradleboard from her arms and looped one of the carrying straps over his shoulder so that Annie dangled comfortably behind him, in full view of her mother.

“You and I have violated this place,” he said. “It's only because of the spirit's forgiveness that we're allowed to stay. As soon as you're strong enough, we must go from here—and we must leave everything as we found it.”

“And what about those Blackfoot? What if they ask forgiveness, too?”

He moved uphill, lost in thought for a few moments. “The fathers and grandfathers among the
Siksika
know enough to respect the spirit of the canyon. They know that to take a life, any life, in this place is a violation of its sacred power. But the young ones who came after us today are like foolish children who would stick their fingers into fire. We can only hope they've learned that this canyon is to be left alone.”

“And if they haven't learned?”

Black Sun did not answer. Looking past him, up the slope, Charity could see a steep rock slide where a sec
tion of the canyon wall had caved in. Beyond the slide, a waterfall dropped in a glittering thread from a towering stone ledge.

“Is that where we're going?” She gazed up at the waterfall's dizzying height.

Black Sun nodded. “You'll be all right,” he said. “It's not as steep as it looks. Come on, I'll help you.”

Struggling upward, they reached the foot of the slide. In this part of the canyon, the rocks were a pale cream color, with darker streaks that sparkled in the emerging sunlight. Some of the rocks were as big as small houses and rested at odd angles as if balanced by some playful hand, but the gnarled trunks of the ancient pines that thrust upward between them attested to the fact that the slide had taken place long ago and was stable enough to cross.

“Mind your feet.” Black Sun gripped Charity's hand as they moved upward, stepping from boulder to boulder. In her cradleboard, Annie was wide awake and clearly enjoying the bumpy ride. Charity, however, was exhausted. Her knees and ankles ached from twisting on the slippery rocks, and the rolled strip of petticoat she'd tied in place to stanch her bleeding had chafed her thighs raw.

There was no part of her that did not hurt. But she'd be hanged before she would utter a word of complaint, Charity vowed. She had seen the contempt in Black Sun's eyes when he'd spoken of her as a white woman. True, he had reason to feel as he did. But if he believed
that all women of her race were weak, pitiful and whiny, he was sorely mistaken. Whatever it cost her in stifled groans and swallowed sighs, she would show the man how wrong he was.

By now they were nearing the waterfall. The splash of water on rocks was like the blend of a hundred musical notes underscored by the joyous
zeet-zeet
of a water ouzel. Spring-fed ferns and clumps of lush alum root hung from the face of the high, mossy ledge. Clouds of spray rose from the rocks at its foot, where the water coursed on down the canyon. The scene was breathtaking, Charity thought, forgetting her discomfort. The Garden of Eden could not have been lovelier than this.

The ledge itself, however, was another matter. Its vertical face was slick with moss and water, its mist-shrouded top so high that it seemed to vanish into the clouds. The thought of climbing all the way up, especially in her condition, was enough to rattle her heart and turn her knees to quivering stems that threatened to collapse beneath her.

“Do you need to rest?” Black Sun glanced back over his shoulder. Charity shook her head, ignoring her fear. “What's up there?” she asked.

“Safety.” He stepped behind some spruces and onto a path that was no wider than one of her feet. It was more like a rabbit trail than a deer trail, she thought, her eyes following the route where it wound upward between the rock slide and the cliff. It was easy to under
stand, now, why Black Sun had turned the horses loose. There would have been no way to take a horse across the field of rocks or up the slippery, winding trail.

“You go first,” he said, moving behind her. “That way I'll catch you if you slip.”

“I won't slip,” she said, forcing her feet, in their worn, rain-soaked boots, to take the first step. “Just mind yourself. You're the one who's carrying the baby.” She glanced back at her child, who had slipped into a doze, her small head lolling against the side of the cradleboard. Why was it that Annie always seemed so comfortable with Black Sun? Was it because the little girl felt safer with him than with her own nervous, fearful mother? Never mind, Charity admonished herself. For now, she could only be grateful that her baby was safe and content with a man who had proven that he would die to keep them from harm.

“Oh—” Her foot slipped on a patch of wet moss. Black Sun's hands caught her waist, their grip solid and sure. A surge of heat flashed through Charity's body and she found herself wishing that, by some magic spell, she could be as beautiful as the woman in the legend—the woman who had kept the great Thunderbird here in the canyon and taught him everything he'd needed to know about men and women.

“Take your time.” Black Sun's hands released her. “You don't need to show me how strong you are, Charity Bennett. I've seen enough of your courage to know what you're made of.”

His words flooded her with warmth. But they were only words, she reminded herself. A man's fine words, telling her what she wanted to hear. “How can you say that?” she demanded. “I've been nothing but a burden from the moment you found me.”

There was a long silence behind her, broken only by the squawk of a magpie in the tangled crown of a dead pine. “That may be true,” Black Sun said at last. “But our burdens can bless us by becoming our teachers.”

“Oh? And how could I bless you, Black Sun? What could you possibly learn from someone like me?”

“Patience.”

His reply was so swift and terse that it triggered an unexpected welling of laughter. Charity felt that amusement bubble up inside her to emerge as a burst of emotion—a release so compelling that it poured out of her like a river breaking through a dam.

Her grandparents had raised her to believe that laughter was frivolous, and therefore evil. Silas, if anything, had been even more rigid in his views about laughter, music and the pleasures of the flesh. Now, suddenly, it struck her that she was free of them all. Silas was gone and her grandparents were far beyond reach. She was trudging through this vast wilderness under conditions that would make any proper lady reach for her smelling salts. She had traded her clothes for a buckskin shirt and entrusted her baby to a half-naked savage who had seen every intimate part of her. And she was giving him lessons in patience!

Her situation was ludicrous—and Charity laughed. She laughed until the tears ran down her face and she had to grip a sapling to keep from falling off the trail.

Suddenly it was as if her frayed nerves had snapped. What had begun as laughter became something dark and deep. Charity found herself convulsed by sobs as the fear and grief she'd held back found its release. Images of Silas, Rueben and the others, dying in a hail of arrows, swept over her. Her body jerked with emotion. Her breath came in tiny hiccups of anguish. Her body bent almost double, as if she'd just been kicked in the stomach.

Black Sun's hands closed on her shoulders, turning her toward him on the narrow trail. Charity's resistance was no more than a flicker as she sank against his chest and felt his arms close around her.

“I'm…sorry,” she whispered between sobs. “I don't mean to be so much trouble. I've given you enough lessons in…patience.”

His throat moved against her hair. “Let your tears fall, Charity. You've lost your husband. Your spirit will never heal unless you mourn.”

His tenderness only frustrated her. Was that what she was doing, mourning Silas? Silas, who'd treated her as a mindless possession with no more will of her own than a sheep or cow? Silas, who'd been as miserly with smiles and kind words as he was generous with blows and rebukes? Surely something in her must have loved him. But that meek, submissive part of her was gone.
If she mourned Silas now, it was only for the useless, violent way in which he had died.

And what was she doing in another man's arms, savoring the feel of his strong, masculine body while the ravens picked the charred flesh from her husband's bones? Oh, she was wicked to have the thoughts that were stealing into her mind. Wicked, when she should be in mourning, to feel stirrings of carnal desire whenever Black Sun came near her. Not only wicked, but foolish. If he was holding her now, it was only out of pity. He was a good man, this savage who had saved her. He would be shocked and repelled to know what she was feeling in his arms.