The Guardian by Elizabeth Lane Page B

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 withAnnie clutched to her breast, only one thought, defying all reason, flashed through her brain.
    The great Thunderbird’s spirit has returned to the canyon.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    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 wasno 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.