The Guardian (9 page)

Thinking of what lay ahead, Black Sun let his gaze linger on Charity's sleeping face. Her lips were full and pink and innocent, like a little girl's, but her eyes were shadowed with grief and exhaustion. Had she been dreaming of her husband while he'd been dreaming of her? Had she loved the dead missionary? Had she enjoyed the act that had conceived their child?

Questions like these were useless, Black Sun reminded himself. But he could not tear his eyes away from her where she lay in the moonlight, her baby nestled against the hollow of her shoulder. She had drifted off to sleep nursing her child. One creamy, swollen breast lay exposed, not quite touching the baby's mouth. The areola was a deep rose, darkening to russet brown at the nipple. Black Sun could see the faint blue tracery of veins that lay beneath her translucent skin. He ached to touch her, but he knew that if he allowed himself even the brush of a finger, he would be lost. The touch would become a caress. The caress would awaken her, and then he would see the fear in her eyes.

With a ragged sigh, Black Sun turned away from her, ducked under the lip of the low cave and walked out into the darkness. The rain had faded to a feathery drizzle that dimpled the pool above the waterfall, shattering the reflection of the moon. Crouching beside the pool, he dipped water in his hands and splashed it on his face, welcoming the cold shock of it.

He was alone—that was the one constant reality of his life. Fate had thrust him between two worlds, and he belonged to neither of them. He yearned to be one with his people, but he had been raised by a white man. He had missed the vital connection of age groups, societies and rituals that guided young Arapaho boys to manhood. He could never get them back.

That was the reason he'd asked his wife's sister to raise his son with her family. He had wanted Two Feathers to grow up Arapaho in every respect. Now it was as if the boy was no longer his. But Black Sun's sacrifice had secured Two Feathers's place with his people. The child would never know the emptiness, the disconnection from his tribe that had haunted his father's life.

As for the
Nih'oo'oo,
Black Sun had learned to detest everything about them. The greed, selfishness and crude behavior of the whites he'd known had filled his heart with loathing.

Then, by pure chance, he had stumbled across Charity Bennett. Terrified, in pain and fighting for life, she had touched him in a way he had no wish to be touched.
All he had ever wanted was to be Arapaho, his heart unsullied by the stain of the white world. Let Charity pull him back toward that world and he would lose everything he cherished. He could not, would not, let that happen.

So what had the dream of the Thunderbird meant?
Nothing,
Black Sun told himself. Nothing but the stirring wants of a man who had been too long without a woman. His desire for Charity was natural. But desire could be controlled. He would keep his distance from her and deliver her safely back to her people. Once that was done, he would weigh the choice of giving up his useless quest and returning to his tribe to marry again and start a new family. If he could not serve the Arapaho as a medicine man, at least he might salvage a few years of happiness for himself.

His hand came to rest on the polished bone handle of the knife he had carried since the night of his mother's death. The weapon had become a symbol of his loathing for the white man. He had only to touch it or feel its weight at his hip to be reminded of the reasons for that hatred. But he had felt no such emotion when he'd used the blade to sever the baby's birth cord—or later, when he'd cut willows to weave the cradleboard.

Was the knife losing its power to keep his rage alive? Black Sun stared into the darkness of the canyon, his heart churning. Tomorrow he would be all right. He would be able to think and move, to lose himself in ac
tion. But this night would be long and sleepless, with Charity and her baby lying in the shelter of the rock, warm, sweet and far beyond his reach.

 

C
HARITY AWOKE
to the piping call of a chickadee. Perched on a gnarled pine trunk that overhung the pool, the black-capped bird seemed to be curious. It flitted from branch to branch, cocking its head and scolding in a voice that seemed far too loud for its tiny body.

Annie stirred against her side, rooting for her breakfast. With a drowsy sigh, Charity shifted the baby in her arms and felt the strong little mouth close around her nipple. As the first rays of morning sunlight glimmered above the canyon, she felt a surge of strength and contentment. She was going to be all right. Annie was going to be all right. Black Sun would see them safely home.

Black Sun! Her heart lurched. Where was he?

Clutching the baby to her breast, she struggled to a sitting position. The clenched feeling in her chest eased as she saw him crouched on the other side of the pool, grinding something between two flat rocks.

He glanced up at her, then averted his eyes. Seeing that her breast was uncovered, Charity used her free hand to pull a corner of the buffalo robe over her bare shoulder and the nursing baby. Yesterday the danger had made modesty unimportant. Today was different—and so was the danger.

“What are you doing?” Even when she spoke softly,
her voice seemed to echo off the cliffs. Startled, the chickadee took flight.

“I'm making a new poultice for your burns,” he said without looking up. “Leave it on until tomorrow. It will help your back heal without scars.”

Charity huddled deeper into the buffalo robe, aware of her matted hair, her smudged face and bloodstained legs. “I was really hoping to bathe,” she said with a wistful glance toward the water. “Can't your poultice wait until after I've had time to get clean?”

“Not unless you can put the mixture on your back by yourself,” he answered gruffly. “We need meat. Hunting is forbidden in this canyon, so I'll have to leave you here for a day or two, maybe longer.”

Charity felt her heart drop. Only now did she realize how dependent on Black Sun she had become. Without him, she and Annie would be alone and helpless.

“You should be safe here,” he said, reading her thoughts. “You'll have plenty of water, and I'll leave you the parfleche with the rest of the dried meat. If you run out or get hungry for something different, the bulbs of that lily plant by the cliff make good eating. You won't starve.” He scraped the pounded, leafy mass off the rock, working it in his hands as he rose and walked toward her.

“Turn around and let me see your back,” he said, crouching beside her. “You can bathe tomorrow. I need to treat your burns now, so I can be on my way before the sun fully rises.”

Annie had finished nursing and drifted back into slumber. Charity laid her child in the cradleboard, then turned her back toward Black Sun and peeled the buckskin shirt down off her shoulders, baring her body almost to the waist. As he bent closer to examine her burns, her arms crossed self-consciously over her breasts.

“The blisters are looking better,” he muttered. “Do you have much pain?”

“Only a little soreness.” Her pulse rocketed as his fingers touched her skin. Her breathing seemed to take conscious effort. “My…grandmother always put mutton fat on burns.”

“Fat is bad. It keeps the heat inside the burn.” He pressed the cooling mixture onto her blistered shoulder blade, sending a little shiver down her spine. The aroma of his body crept into her senses. He smelled of rain and damp wood and warm, pungent maleness.

“I like your remedy better.” Charity focused on the words with effort. “What is it?”

“Yarrow. Mixed with a little mud to make it stick.” His voice was husky, as if he needed to clear his throat. His breath was warm on the back of her neck. She imagined him leaning closer, brushing her skin with his lips, kissing her hurts better, as her father might have done when she was a little girl. But there would be nothing fatherly about the feel of Black Sun's kiss, she sensed. Not when his slightest touch sent flickers of heat rippling through her body.

Back in Indiana, Charity had overheard a remark from a married neighbor, to the effect that nursing an infant often awakened a woman's yearning for a man. Merciful heaven, could that be what was happening to her? Could the tug of that little mouth on her breast trigger sensations that transformed her into a wanton when Black Sun was near? The very thought of it was enough to make her blush with shame. But she could not deny that her heart raced when she felt the warmth of his breath on her bare back. And the deep, secret parts of her body, still unhealed from the birth, tightened and throbbed whenever he touched her.

“Raise your arm a little.” His voice was thick, as if he had just awakened from sleep. One burn, Charity knew, extended in a thin line along her rib cage to end at the edge of her left breast. With her upper arm pressed against her side, he would not be able to treat the burn. She hesitated, her heart pounding. To refuse his request would be to admit that his touch disturbed her, offending his fierce pride. It would only serve to heighten the tension between them.

“Charity, if you don't want—”

“No, go ahead.” She raised her elbow outward, away from her body, leaving her hands crossed over her bare breasts. Black Sun would be exquisitely careful, she told herself. He would not allow the slightest impropriety to pass between them.

She held her breath as his gentle fingertips glided forward around her rib cage. The yarrow was cool and
soothing, his touch like the brush of a feathered wing, as if his fingers were trembling. The shimmer of heat that stole through her body was as sweet and heady as forbidden wine.

Heaven help her, she did not want him to stop.

B
LACK
S
UN COULD FEEL
the slight ridge of her blistered flesh beneath his fingertips. The flame had etched a path through the worn fabric of Charity's dress, burning forward around her side before being crushed out as she'd dropped from the wagon and fallen against the earth. The burn was not serious, but it was in a tender spot. Until it healed, it would give her pain every time it came in contact with her arm. The poultice would speed that healing.

She trembled at his slightest touch. He could feel the ragged galloping of her pulse through the bones of her rib cage. Was she afraid of him? Repulsed? It didn't matter, Black Sun reminded himself. Soon he would be finished with treating her burns. Then he would take his bow and arrows and leave her here in peace.

Black Sun spread the poultice along the fire's trail, which ended where the soft, creamy swell of her breast began. Acutely aware of that breast, he pressed the herbal mix onto her skin to make it stay. He could feel the warmth of her flesh through the cool poultice. He could feel himself rising rock-hard through his leather
loincloth. Mortified, he bit back a curse. It was bad enough, the inappropriate thoughts he'd been having about this white woman. Now his own body was betraying him.

Was it that same betrayal that caused his hand to move too far? Black Sun would never know. He only knew that when his fingers brushed the soft, swelling boundary of her breast, liquid fire rippled up his arm and down into his loins, and he could no more stop touching her than he could stop his heart from beating.

She moaned, her chest arching upward, her body turning to press her nipple against his palm. Something shattered inside Black Sun as he wrapped his fingers around her, cradling the wondrously soft, milk-swollen weight in his hand. She whimpered with need and slid her own hand over his to hold it in place. Her skin was baby-soft, warm with desire. His thumb stroked her nipple. She gasped softly as it puckered and hardened beneath his touch.

Lowering his head, he brushed his lips along her bare shoulder. She tasted the way she smelled, salty woman-sweet. Again she moaned, letting the damp tangle of her hair fall back against his shoulder. Her breath came in tiny, raw gasps. Dizzy with wanting her, he kissed her throat, her ear. Beneath the leather that girded his hips, his arousal throbbed, aching for release.

What are you doing?
the voice of wisdom screamed in the back of his mind. This woman had just given birth. She was in no condition to be taken by any man,
especially a man of his people, one who had sworn to keep his distance from everything white. Touching her like this was pure craziness. He had to stop now, before desire ravaged them both.

“I have to go.” He tore himself away from her and stumbled to his feet.

“Black Sun—” She gazed up at him, her arms wrapping her breasts, her silvery eyes swimming with tears. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

“No.” He backed away from her, sick with need. “We need to forget this ever happened. We can't speak of it again!”

Snatching up his bow and quiver, he strode toward the trail that led down the cliffside. At the spot where the narrow path dropped below the ledge, he glanced back over his shoulder. Charity was huddled beneath the shelter of the overhanging rock, clutching the buffalo robe in front of her. Her stricken look all but shattered him.

“Stay here,” he said, forcing out each gruff word. “Whatever you do, don't try to leave. I'll be back as soon as I can find food for us.”

Her lips moved, but she did not reply. Tearing his eyes from her soot-streaked face, Black Sun turned away and started down the trail.

 

S
HAKEN TO THE CORE
, Charity stared at the spot where he'd dropped below the rim. The poultice Black Sun had applied so gently was cool and soothing on her blis
tered back. But her conscience burned with the memory of what had just happened.

What had she done?

If she'd had time to think, she might have pulled away when his fingers skimmed her breast. She might have ignored the accidental touch, or even made light of it. Instead she had responded in the most imprudent way, groaning like a wanton and offering her body for more of the same.

What a fool she'd been!

In truth, she could not be angry with Black Sun. He was a man, after all, with a man's needs. Even so, he had taken no more than she'd been willing to give. And it had been his strength, not hers, that had pulled them both back from the precipice.

But how could she face him again? How could she meet the cold caution that would flicker in his eyes every time he looked at her? He had told her he wanted nothing to do with a white woman. She should have taken him at his word, not put that word to the test.

And what about herself? A few weeks from now, if all went well, she would be back among her own people. To ensure a respectable future for Annie, she would need to keep her own reputation spotless. Charity could imagine how so-called decent white people would feel toward a woman, especially a minister's widow, who had welcomed the attentions of an Indian. If they so much as suspected any impropriety, they would cast her out, and her innocent daughter with her.
For Annie's sake, if not her own, she could not allow that to happen.

Black Sun was right. There was nothing to do but to put the encounter behind them and never think about it again.

Forcing herself to move, she eased the buckskin shirt up over her yarrow-coated back and onto her shoulders. She yearned to plunge into the icy water of the pool and scrub her whole body clean. But she wanted the herbal mixture to do its work. Tomorrow would be soon enough for a bath. Meanwhile she would not be idle. There were plenty of things she could do to improve this temporary home.

Picking Annie up, she ducked under the lip of the low cave, and stepped out into the open. Dazzled by the first rays of morning sunlight, she closed her eyes. As she opened them again, her mouth formed a little
O
of wonder.

She was standing in a hanging valley, about two-thirds of the way between the floor of the canyon and the highest point of its walls. Above her, glistening cliffs in shades of cream and buff jutted against a dawn-streaked sky. Springs of cascading water trickled from the ledges to join in the pool at her feet. These springs filled the pool, which fed the waterfall that splashed down the cliff to the canyon floor.

Once, when she was a little girl, her father had told her how rivers of ice, called glaciers, carved canyons with hanging valleys out of the mountains. This place,
she speculated, had been scooped out by a vanishing glacier. Its rocky sides still bore the marks of the ancient ice, but over the passing centuries, this miniature Eden had filled with life. Where the springs flowed downward, ferns and flowers festooned the cliffs. Velvety mosses carpeted the rocks and white lilies, the ones Black Sun had told her were safe to eat, sprouted along the ledges. Beside the pool, a gnarled pine tree stood like a sentinel over the little glade. Swallows darted among the ledges. A yellow butterfly hovered above the water, then fluttered out over the falls and vanished in the mist.

Charity moved cautiously, stretching her limbs, testing her strength. Her young body was recovering well from Annie's birth, and the yarrow poultice was doing its work on her burns. For the first time since the attack on the wagon train, it felt good to be alive.

Walking to the top of the cliff, she gazed down into the canyon. The trail where Black Sun had descended was lost in the waterfall's mist. That same mist would hide her small paradise, concealing any view of it from below. She and Annie would surely be safe here until Black Sun returned from his hunt.

If
he returned…

An icy dread crept over her. Black Sun had promised to come back with food. But he was walking into a world of danger, where anything could go wrong. He could slip and tumble off the slippery path or be taken by the Blackfoot. He could be attacked by wild ani
mals, drowned in a bog or caught in the open by a late spring blizzard. Or he could simply change his mind and decide that a white woman and her child were not worth saving. Any one of a hundred things could keep Black Sun from returning; and if even one of them occurred, she and Annie would be stranded in this place.

For the past two days she had been completely dependent on Black Sun. Now that would have to change. Starting today, she would take stock of her resources. She would determine what she and Annie needed to survive and then prepare as best she could. She owed that much to her daughter, and to herself.

With Black Sun's help or without it, she vowed, she and her child would live to find their way to safety.

Black Sun had left their meager supplies piled against the lowest wall of the shelter. The parfleche contained half a dozen strips of dried venison. It would be wise to save it, she knew, but if she denied herself nourishment, she would have nothing to feed Annie.

Weighing her choice, Charity tore off a sliver of meat and chewed it carefully. It was tough and salty, but nursing the baby had given her a roaring appetite. It took an act of will to replace the rest of the venison, close the parfleche and put it away. She would learn to eat the lily roots, as well, she resolved. That way, the meat would last longer.

Her sodden dress, petticoat and underclothes lay in a bloodstained wad on the ground. The clothes were beyond wearing, but if washed clean and dried in the sun,
the fabric could have many uses—bandages, a makeshift tent for shelter, wrappings for the baby or for her feet.

Washing the clothes would be the first order of the day, she decided. She had no soap, but the flat rock at the far side of the pool, where the water streamed out toward the falls, would do as a scrubbing board.

She took the time to wipe Annie clean and replace the absorbent moss that served as a diaper in the cradleboard. Then, gathering the soiled clothes into a bundle, she picked up the baby and walked around the pool to the far side. A patch of yellow sand still bore the imprints of Black Sun's long moccasins. Charity gazed down at the tracks, color flooding her face at the memory of his hand on her breast, his lips searing a path up her shoulder. For a moment her heart clenched like a fist in her chest and all she wanted was to see him again, to feel his hands on her body, to taste his seeking mouth with her own.

No!
She wrenched the forbidden thoughts from her mind. She could not think of him, could not yearn for him. She had her own future to think of and, more important, her daughter's.

With Annie propped safely nearby, she knelt beside the band of water that streamed toward the falls. Gripping the waistband of her petticoat, she rinsed it clean in the current, scrubbing out the stains against the rough rocks. When it was as clean as she could manage, she spread it on the rocks to dry, then started on her dress.

By the time the dress was clean, the weathered chambray fabric had been scrubbed full of holes. Charity twisted out the water, gave the garment a good shaking and spread it over a boulder to catch the sunlight.

Only her underdrawers—or her unmentionables, as her grandmother would call them—remained. These were badly stained, the cheap muslin fabric worn gossamer-thin. They hardly seemed worth saving, but in this place, she could not afford to waste anything.

As Charity leaned over the water, something in the graveled streambed caught a ray of sunlight, glinting so brightly that it dazzled her eyes. The drawers slipped from her fingers and floated away, drifting toward the waterfall.

“Oh, no—” She made a desperate lunge for them, but she was too late. Caught up in the swift current, the unmentionables bobbed into the mist and vanished over the edge of the falls.

With a sigh of resignation, she sank back onto her heels to rest. The sun was well above the cliffs now. Last night's storm had passed and the sky was as blue as the flash of a bunting's wing above the glittering ledges.

Fate had dropped her into a tiny piece of paradise. But even a paradise could become a prison, Charity reminded herself. She could not let herself be lulled by the magical beauty of this place. If she and Annie were to survive, she would need to think, to plan, to act.

Scooping her palm into the stream, she raised her cupped hand to her lips and took a cautious taste. The
water was fresh and good, and she was thirsty for more. Bending closer, she made a bowl of her hands. That was when she noticed the school of finger-length trout swimming along the bottom of the stream. The fish were tiny, but there were literally hundreds of them. If she could catch enough of these small trout and dry their bodies in the sun, they would provide a nutritious, lightweight food source on the journey home.

She grabbed for a fish. But the slippery creatures were too fast for her. She only succeeded in scraping a knuckle on something sharp and solid in the stream's graveled bed.

Charity withdrew her hand and stared down into the crystal-clear water. That was when she saw it—the same bright, reflected glimmer of light that had caught her eye earlier.

Curious, she thrust her hand into the water again. Her fingers groped in the gravel and closed around an object that was about the length of her thumb. Its chilled surface, unlike the stream-tumbled rocks around it, was lumpy and had a dense, metallic feel to it. Charity worked it free from the surrounding stones. An instant later she had it out of the water.

Shaped like the rough head of an eagle, it lay heavy in the palm of her hand, glowing with yellow light, like a piece of the sun itself.

Charity's heart crept into her throat. She was holding a nugget—a precious lump of pure, solid gold.

 

B
Y THE TIME
Black Sun emerged from the canyon, the
Siksika
braves had departed. Their campsite was empty, the bonfire blackened and cold, the ground littered with discarded bones from the deer they'd killed and eaten. He had hoped to find horses nearby, either his own or some he could take. But there were no horses to be found. He would have no choice except to hunt on foot.