The Guardian (8 page)

Steeling her will, Charity pushed herself away from the smoke-scented hardness of his body. “I'm all right now,” she said huskily. “I can go on.”

He nodded, his mouth set in a thin line. Charity strode up the trail, willing herself not to slip. If she slipped, he might reach out and steady her. She would feel the clasp of his hands and the surrounding strength of his arms, and she would be torn in a way she had no right to be torn.

“Tell me about your son,” she said, needing the distraction of talk. “You told me he was six years old. What's his name?”

“We call him Two Feathers.” Black Sun's voice warmed slightly. “But that's only a baby name. When he's older, he'll be given another name, one he will earn or choose for himself.”

“Oh? And did you have a baby name?” Charity tried to imagine Black Sun as a child. She pictured a serious, solemn little boy with a burning curiosity about everything around him.

“My people always called me Black Sun because of my birth,” he said. “My white stepfather called me Johnny, but I threw that name away when my mother died and I left him.” He fell silent as if passing through a shadow. When he spoke again, however, there was no bitterness in his voice. “If I live to be old, I may give my name to my son or another young man. Then he will be Black Sun and I will choose a new name for myself.”

“You can't keep your own name if you give it to someone else? What a confusing custom!” Charity exclaimed.

“Is it any more confusing than your custom of giving a boy the same name as his father, while the father still lives, so that both their names are the same? Among my people, a name can only belong to one person. It is something to be earned or chosen or given as a gift. One who receives another's name vows to keep that name sacred and to never bring shame or dishonor upon it. Your people could learn from our customs, Charity Bennett.”

His hand steadied her elbow as they crept upward along the edge of the waterfall. Charity was grateful for his conversation, which distracted her from looking down into the depths of the canyon. She had always been terrified of heights, and she knew that even a
downward glance would trigger an image of losing her balance and plummeting onto the teeth of the sharp-edged rocks below.

The watery mist was all around them now, turning the cliffside into a hanging garden of ferns, mosses and the tiny, bunched white flowers. The trail was as slippery as ice, each step a new adventure in terror. Far above her, the top of the waterfall was lost in mist. For all she knew, it could be a mile above her head. Only trust kept her moving upward—the faith that the man behind her would steady her if she slipped, and that no matter what else happened, he would keep Annie safe.

“Your husband was a missionary. Isn't that what you told me?”

Black Sun's abrupt question startled her. “Yes,” Charity answered, her mouth consciously forming the word. “We were going to build a mission in the Flathead country. It…was his dream. It was my dream, too. At least, I thought it was when I married him.”

“Missionaries!” He spat out the word. “Isn't it bad enough for the whites to steal our land? Do they have to steal our spirits, as well?”

“Not steal them. Save them.”

Surely she was right, Charity thought. Surely Silas had been right, and her grandparents, and all the good people who had donated money for their journey. The Indians of the West were lost souls, their spirits crying out for the light. It was the duty of Christian missionaries to bring them that light. Surely it was.

But why, then, at the missions where they'd stopped on their way West, had the converted Indians appeared so wretched, begging for food and wearing ragged, cast-off white people's clothes? Why did the so-called heathen savages, like the man walking behind her, bear themselves with the splendid pride of free people?

“We did not ask for your religion or your rules.” Black Sun spoke as if he had read her thoughts. “Our gods are wise and good as long as we honor them, and we treat our brothers with kindness and respect. As for our enemies, we do not love them as your missionaries say we must. That would be foolish. But if an enemy is brave in death, we treat his body with honor. What else do we need? Why should we care about people in a book who lived on the other side of the world?”

Charity winced and almost stumbled as her toe stubbed against a sharp stone. Between the height of the cliff and her own fatigue, she was beginning to feel light-headed. She imagined closing her eyes and floating off the trail into space, drifting downward like a fallen petal…how sweet it would feel.

“You have the freedom to believe whatever you wish,” she said, wrenching herself back to reality. “So do I.”

Black Sun chuckled under his breath. “Well,” he said, “at least we agree about something.”

“Thank goodness for that.” The clouds were thickening again, casting a pall of darkness over the canyon. Charity dragged herself upward, driven by the fear that
another swift storm would catch them on the trail and wash them off the cliff. Every move dredged the well of her strength. She moved on leaden feet, clutching at rocks and tree trunks for support. The sound of the falls swirled in her ears, white sound, like the sigh of gentle ocean waves. The waves flowed around her, lapping at her senses, cool and alluring. She swayed, drifting with the pull of the tide.

The last thing she remembered was the sensation of powerful arms lifting her above the waves, then the distant echo of thunder and the wetness of rain on her face.

 

B
LACK
S
UN
caught her as she fell, lifting her scant weight in his arms. Charity had climbed the dizzying trail with a warrior's courage, but now she had nothing left. She would need days of good food and rest before she was strong enough to travel back to her people.

Her head lolled against his chest, pale hair plastered wetly to her skin. She reminded him of the lynx kitten he had once rescued from a flood, tired and wet and battered, but still full of fight. He had returned the kitten to its hillside den, just as he knew he must return this small, golden kitten of a woman to her rightful home. She and her baby needed him now. They needed his strength and care. But they were not his family. They could not be part of his world, and he could never be part of theirs. Letting them creep into his heart would be the most foolhardy thing he could do.

Charity had collapsed near the top of the trail. Even
so, carrying her the rest of the way, with the cradleboard slung from his shoulder and the bundle of provisions tucked under his arm, was not easy. Black Sun was breathing hard by the time he reached the glade with its rain-dimpled pool and sheltering rocks.

Lulled by the motion of the climb, the baby had fallen asleep in her cradleboard. She stirred and opened her sky-blue eyes, then settled into slumber once more as Black Sun let the carrying strap slide down his arm, lowering her to the ground.

Charity's lips were tinged with blue and her teeth were chattering. Black Sun carried her to the sandy hollow beneath the overhang of the rock. Supporting her with one arm, he spread the largest buffalo robe over the sand and shifted her onto it.

Her eyelids fluttered open as she came to rest. “Where are we?” she whispered, gazing up at him with worried eyes. “Where's my baby?”

“We're safe, and your baby's here. See?” Cupping the back of her head with his hand, he raised her so that she could see where he'd left the cradleboard. The tiny girl was awake now and beginning to fuss.

“Bring her to me.” Her voice was edged with a mother's urgency. “I want—I
need
to hold her!”

Black Sun picked up the cradleboard and laid it beside her. Charity rolled onto her side beneath the buffalo robe. Her numb fingers plucked awkwardly at the lacings in an effort to free her child from the rigid willow frame.

“I'll do it.” Taking pity on her, Black Sun untied the knots, folded back the leather wrappings and lifted out the squirming baby. At once Charity's daughter began to squall, kicking like a frog with her spindly little legs.

“Is it safe for her to cry?” Charity glanced up at him with wary eyes.

“No one will hear her in this place,” Black Sun said. “But still, she must learn to be quiet before we leave.”

Charity fumbled with the front of the buckskin shirt. Instinctively, Black Sun averted his eyes. Among his people, mothers nursed their babies in the open without a second thought. But Charity was a white woman, and although there was no part of her moon-pale body he had not seen, he reminded himself that to look at her would not be proper.

While the baby sucked noisily, Black Sun busied himself with organizing the supplies he'd carried up the cliff. These included a large buffalo robe and a smaller one, along with some pieces of leather, several lengths of sinew and three amulet-size leather bags he'd brought along for collecting medicinal herbs. There were the bridles, hobbles and tethers for the horses and the long, coiled throwing rope he had braided from rawhide. There was also a spare knife, smaller than the one he carried, and the parfleche, which contained only a few scraps of dried meat—far too few, he realized.

Charity's stained, ragged dress and underclothes might be useful for wrappings once they were washed. He lifted the dress, surprised by its weight until he re
alized that the toy-size gun was still in the pocket. Removing the tiny weapon, he laid it in the palm of his hand. Without bullets, it was little more than a trinket. But it might do for trade later on. For that alone, it would be worth keeping.

Black Sun sighed as he surveyed their pitiful resources. What he had was adequate for his own survival. But keeping Charity and her baby alive would require much more. In the days ahead he would have to provide for all their needs: food, clothing, shelter and protection. Once they were strong enough to travel, they would need horses. And he would have to find a way through territory that was crawling with braves who'd look on a young white woman as a prized trophy.

His gaze flickered upward to the darkening clouds. He had fasted for four days and begged Heisonoonin to grant him a vision. What if
this
was his vision—the woman, the baby and the mysteries of the sacred canyon? What if the Great Spirit had something to teach him, some lesson he could learn only through experience? And what if Charity Bennett was to be the instrument of that lesson—this scrawny, argumentative creature who surprised him when he least expected it by tugging at his heart?

Had it been by chance that she'd survived the attack on the wagon train, when the other whites had died?

Had it been by chance that she'd been discovered by the only person within many days' ride who could speak her language?

Had it been his destiny to find her—or had it been
her
destiny to be found by him?

Behind him, the sounds of blissful sucking had ceased. Black Sun turned his head for a tentative glance. He saw that Charity had fallen asleep with her tiny daughter in the crook of her arm. Her swollen breast, as smooth and pale as a wild rose petal, lay within reach of the baby's mouth. The nipple, elongated by sucking, was the deep mauve color of a ripening blackberry.

Again Black Sun felt the tug at his heart—that rush of emotion he'd battled from the moment he'd found her. He fought it still, knowing that to give in to his feelings would open the door to tragedy.

Crouching beside her, he folded the sides of the buffalo robe around her chilled and weary body. Unbidden, his fingertip brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. Her golden eyelashes twitched but did not open. She slept like an exhausted child, her expression shifting with the current of dreams that flowed through her mind—dreams that carried her to places he could never go.

Nestled against her breast, the baby stirred in her sleep, blowing milky little bubbles as she breathed. Black Sun found himself aching to lie down beside them, to gather them into his arms and drift with them in the sweet, warm world of their slumber. But that thought was no more than a fantasy. Wisdom required that he keep a proper distance between himself and
this woman of the
Nih'oo'oo
—this woman he could never possess.

Wrapping himself in the remaining buffalo robe, he settled at the entrance to their rocky shelter, with his back against the sloping wall of the cliff. It was not a comfortable bed, but he had not rested for the past two days and his mind was as tired as his body. As rain clouds swept over the canyon, Black Sun closed his eyes and slept.

H
E WAS SOARING
above the mountaintops, his vast wings trailing black storm clouds across the sky. Each beat of those wings lanced the heavens with arrows of lightning and sent thunderclaps crashing off the peaks. But no life-giving rains fell in their wake. The plains and forests, the mountains and canyons, were parched and barren.

His eyes, sharper than an eagle's, saw the misery of the people and animals far below. He saw the buffalo pawing the earth for water in the dry beds where lakes and streams had been. He saw the people in their camps, the children crying with hunger, the women digging in the dust for withered roots, the men riding far in search of water and returning with despair etched across their faces.

Everywhere on the earth there was want and sadness. And yet the heart of the great Thunderbird felt nothing. He had many gifts and powers, but compassion was not among them. And only through compassion could he bless the earth with rain.

“What can I do to feel pity for the people and ani
mals, that I may give them what they need?” he asked Heisonoonin, the giver of all life.

The answer came as a whisper inside his own ear. “To learn pity for the beings on earth, you must become one of them. You must live on the earth for a time and feel what they feel. Only then will your heart overflow with enough compassion to bring the rain.”

The Thunderbird spread his wings and flew over the mountains until he found a high-walled canyon with a waterfall like a silver thread. The canyon opened onto a plain where there were people living in a village.
If I come to earth here, I can watch the people from the canyon,
he thought.
Then, when I am ready, I can come out and join them.

He flew down into the canyon. As soon as his feet touched the earth, he became a man, with a man's body. How strange it was to feel the ground beneath his bare feet. The rocks and thorns were sharp and pricked him with every step. He tried to fly away, but his wings were gone, and so were his feathers. He felt the wind on his bare skin. When he looked down, he saw the parts of a man's body, wonderfully shaped like some rare flower, between his legs. He touched them and was startled by the sweet, shimmering ache that arose from the merest brush of his fingers. His sharp eyes had seen naked humans from the sky, so he knew how their bodies looked. But this sensitivity to touch was a surprise, like no pleasure he had ever known.

A faint rustle reached his ears on the wind and he
realized that someone was coming up the canyon. He was wondering if he should cover his nakedness, as humans often did in each other's presence, when he glanced down and saw a pair of moccasins and a length of buckskin lying at his feet. Hastily he put them on, working his feet into the moccasins and draping the buckskin around his loins. Then, because he was not ready to show himself, he moved back into the trees.

As he watched from his hiding place, the bushes parted and a woman stepped into sight. He could see at once that she was not one of the women from the village, for her skin was as pale as moonlight and her hair was the white-gold color of winter grass. When she turned toward him, he saw that her eyes were the soft silver color of water on a cloudy day.

She was dressed much as he was, in moccasins and a short leather skirt. From the waist up she was bare except for a simple string of blue beads around her neck. The swollen globes of her breasts were as delicately colored as the inner surface of a shell, the nipples deep pink, like swollen buds.

Watching her, he felt an unaccustomed heat beneath the buckskin that wrapped his hips—a yearning so deep, so human, that it shook him to the center of his being. In his Thunderbird form, he had paid little attention to the differences between the bodies of men and women. Only now, as a man, did he understand what those differences meant; and he discovered that he wanted her in a way that caused his body to burn and swell with desire.

Heisonoonin had sent him to the earth to learn pity for humans. But it was not pity that he felt, only the deepest hunger he had ever known.

Driven by instinct, he stepped into the open and held out his hand. Her silvery eyes widened for an instant, inspecting him from head to toe. Then, with a shy smile, she slipped her hand into his and they walked, side by side, into the depths of the canyon.

He had never seen her before, but he knew she was no ordinary woman. She had come to be his teacher, to lead him to experiences he could only know as a man. The simple pressure of her fingertips rippled through his body like waves of liquid fire. Beneath the light buckskin wrap, his male parts were hard, swollen and so sensitive that the slightest movement caused him to bite back a groan.

From the distance of the sky, he had seen men and women engaged in a strangely sensual wrestling match, always with the man thrusting his hips between the woman's legs. Only now did he begin to have some sense of what it meant. The very thought of doing it made his blood run hot.

As they moved up through the canyon and wound their way to the rocky glade above the waterfall, he stole furtive glances at his companion. He ached for her touch against his skin, yearned to know the deep, sweet secrets of her woman's body and to perform that exquisitely savage dance of men and women.

She led him upward, to a sheltered cave in the ledges
above the pool. This appeared to be her home, for she had covered the floor with thick buffalo robes and hung bundles of fragrant herbs from the ceiling to dry. A savory stew of meat and wild onion simmered over a bed of coals. As the Great Thunderbird, he had not required food, but now that he was a man, the aroma of the stew triggered a compelling growl in the pit of his stomach.

His greater hunger, however, was for the woman. The firelight shimmered on her skin. He fought the wild desire to seize her in his arms and fling her down on the buffalo robes. She was his teacher, he reminded himself. It was seemly that he show respect and wait for her to make the next move.

Something stirred in the shadows and he heard a small, mewling cry. He watched as she walked to a sheltered corner of the cave and lifted a squirming bundle out of a reed basket. Astonished, he saw that it was a baby, as pale and golden and beautiful as the woman herself.

Cradling the baby in her arms, she lowered herself to a cross-legged position on the buffalo robe. The nipple of one swollen breast hung above the baby's mouth. Rooting hungrily, the little creature found it and began to suck. The woman looked up at him, a peaceful smile on her lips.

Outside, darkness had fallen over the canyon. Instinctively he moved to the entrance of the cave to guard the woman and child against the dangers of the night. As he stood looking down on the two of them—
the woman's golden head, the baby's tiny, rosebud mouth pulling at her life-giving breast, the sweetness that swept over him was unlike anything he had ever experienced. He felt the warm glow of the fire and smelled the mouthwatering aromas of meat and onions. He heard the soft hiss of the burning coals and the low, velvety voice of the woman as she sang a lullaby to her child. Her eyes gazed up at him, shining with the promise of what was to come.

A sense of absolute contentment flowed through his body, as if all he had ever wanted in his life was contained in the warmth of this cozy space, the presence of this woman and her infant, the peace of this small sanctuary in the night. To preserve this place and these precious people, he realized, he would do anything—work and hunt, fight, raid, kill, shed his own blood, even lay down his life.

It was the most powerful feeling he had ever known.

Satisfaction simmered in his soul as he looked around him. Take pity on humans? How could he? What could arouse his pity, when human bodies and spirits held such a capacity for joy?

The baby had fallen asleep at its mother's breast. Carefully she rose to her feet, carried the infant to the far side of the cave and eased it back into the reed basket. Then, turning, she glided toward him and held out her arms.

Without a word, he reached out and gathered her close. Her curves fit against his body as if one had been
used as a mold for the other. He was utterly innocent, yet he knew instinctively that he was to touch her. How could he not touch her, when every sweet, warm, willing part of her invited his hands? He felt the swelling rush of heat in his loins as he cradled her breast in his palm, his thumb stroking the taut bud of her nipple. She sighed, arching her body against him. The pressure of her hips against his swollen manhood triggered a low moan that, this time, he could not hold back. He wanted more. He wanted that sensual, serpentine dance of male and female, with his body thrusting hard between her legs.

His hands slid beneath her deerskin skirt to find the small, plump moons of her buttocks. Instinctively he cupped them, pulling her against him until the pressure threatened to shatter his control. He could feel the jerky, pounding rhythm of her heart, hear the rasp of her breathing as she pushed against him. Her frenzied fingers caught at the buckskin wrap that circled his hips, pulling it loose. It fell away, leaving him naked against her. He gasped with the pleasure of it, understanding more and more.

Without needing to be told, he lowered her to the buffalo robe. She lay back, her hair spreading in golden waves. The eyes that gazed up at him were suddenly filled with tears.

Tears? Was this what the woman had been sent to show him?

He would have questioned her, but the need that
drove him was too urgent, too strong. Parting her thighs, he found the place that, somehow, he had known would be there. With a cry of purest joy, he thrust himself into her, deeper, deeper, burying his shaft to the hilt. Dizzy with the wonder of it, he paused for an instant, savoring the warmth of her, the tight, welcoming, wet embrace.

And then, in a sudden flash, he knew.

He would lose all of this—the woman, the baby, the glowing sanctuary of their little home. However and whenever it was to happen, he would lose them all, just as humans did. Children lost parents; parents lost children. Husbands and wives lost each other. Friends lost friends, and lovers lost lovers. To feel such sweetness, such love, and then to experience the killing pain of loss—that was what it meant to be human.

The Thunderbird felt his heart burst inside him. As he thrust his manhood into her beautiful body, driven by love and anguish, his compassion opened the sky and the blessed rain began to fall….

 

B
LACK
S
UN'S LIMBS
jerked as he tumbled out of the dream. Stunned by the memory of it, he lay back against the rock, listening to the rain drizzle over the lip of the sheltering cave.

Everything about the dream had seemed absolutely real—the sensation of flying on wings as broad as the sky, the sharpness of the ground beneath his feet, and the woman in his arms—her face had been Charity's
face, and her ripe, sensual body had been Charity's body. Stirring now, he felt the slickness between his thighs. The dream had been all too real. But what did it mean? Had it been the vision he'd sought, or only the wanderings of a weary mind?

Still dazed, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. How long had he slept? Long enough for the sun to have set and twilight to have closed in. Beside him, Charity slumbered with her infant in the peace of complete exhaustion. He could hear her soft breathing in the darkness, its sweet cadence blending with the chirp of crickets and the faint, echoing cry of a wolf. The air was chilly, but he dared not make a fire. The night was filled with eyes and even a small blaze might be seen from a great distance.

Pushing away from the rock, he peered out through the rainy darkness. The canyon was shrouded in deep twilight, veiled by the mist that rose from the waterfall. A waning moon had risen to drift among the thinning clouds.

One silvery ray fell across Charity's face, casting her features into startling beauty. Black Sun gazed down at her, fighting the impulse to stroke her cheek with the tip of his finger. Burned, bloodied, filthy and exhausted, she was still the woman in his dream. But he was not the great Thunderbird. He was only a man, all too weak and all too human.

Loving her would be as natural as breathing. He knew that now. But the price of that love—the pain of
losing her—was more than he was willing to pay. He knew that pain well. It had devastated him when he'd lost his mother. It had ripped him apart like a wild beast when his wife had died in childbirth. To feel the raging agony that would come when Charity turned her back on him and walked away to join her people—no, he had been through enough. To suffer that kind of loss again would be more than his heart could stand.

Rising to his feet, he stared out at the dwindling rain. He was wasting time, brooding about desire and loss, when there were more urgent concerns at hand. First thing tomorrow he would need to find food for this brief family of his. Killing was forbidden in the sacred canyon. To find game, he would have to leave and go into the hills or out onto the flatland, moving on foot. He would need to scout carefully for the young
Siksika,
to make sure they were no longer a danger to Charity and her child. He would also want to watch for his horses. Given the chance, the two ponies might escape their captors and wander back to where he had left them at the mouth of the canyon. If he found them, he could move them to a safe place and keep them there until he needed them.

For now there was nothing to do but watch, listen, rest and think. It would be three or four days, perhaps, before Charity was strong enough to travel. Until they cleared the territory of the
Siksika,
it would be wise to travel by night and hide during the day. Even then, danger would be their constant companion. Black Sun
did not fear for himself, but imagining the things that could happen to Charity and her child made his heart shrink in his chest.

Being killed or captured by the
Siksika
would be their greatest peril. But they would also be dealing with wild animals, rough terrain, sudden storms, the chance of sickness. And the white men they encountered could be even more dangerous than the
Siksika
—bandits and renegades, capable of the most depraved acts.