The Guardian by Elizabeth Lane

hands. “Give her to me,” he said.
    Charity’s arms tightened around her baby as Rueben’s story flashed through her mind—the Indians who’d smothered their babies to keep them still. She would be skewered alive before she would let such a thing happen to Annie.
    With a sigh, Black Sun dropped to one knee and freed the cradleboard from the bundle. Folding thesmallest of the buffalo robes, he tucked it into the willow frame to make a soft lining.
    â€œ Now give her to me.” The sternness in his voice bordered on contempt, as if he were thinking, Doesn’t this white woman know anything about babies?
    Charity’s legs quivered beneath the fringe of the buckskin shirt as she placed Annie into the bowl of his hands. Black Sun gathered the tiny, straining body against his shoulder, stroking Annie’s back and chanting low, musical words in her ear—words that sounded more like chattering birds and the rush of water than human speech. Almost at once Annie stopped fussing and settled against his warm, golden skin. Her mouth stretched open in a drowsy little yawn.
    Still crooning in his own language, Black Sun eased Annie away from his shoulder and lowered her into the cradleboard. She gazed up at him, mesmerized by his voice and his eyes as he packed a layer of soft moss around her legs and bottom, then pulled the edges of the buffalo skin around her and laced it tightly in place, all the way up to her shoulders.
    When he had finished, Annie was so snugly bound that only her head and neck were free. Strangely enough, she did not seem to mind. She lay contentedly in her tight wrappings, gazing up at the trees with serene blue eyes.
    On her way west, Charity had seen Indian babies bundled in such a fashion and thought it a quaint but harmless custom. But seeing her own precious child trussed like a sausage was quite another matter.
    â€œMerciful heaven, she has no room to move!”
    â€œDid she have room to move in the days before she was born?” Black Sun retorted as if he were speaking to a backward child. “Look at her. Is she in pain? Is she crying? Babies are used to having no space around them. They feel safe when—” He broke off, raising a finger to his lips as a signal for silence.
    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 Charitywhere 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