In the next instant a wall of air slammed into Max hard enough to make him stumble. He straightened, turning into the wind and facing in the direction of the rising sun. Hooves drummed the ground with deafening loudness.

The wind had whipped up a yellow, alkaline dust cloud from the hillside, then swept the mass toward the ridge where River Dog sat. The sound of the hooves grew louder.

The dim outline of a horse and rider formed in the dust cloud, gaining speed till the animal and man burst free of the swirling haze. A Native-American warrior sat atop the charging horse. Both man and animal were marked with war paint. The warrior wore a breastplate made of bird bones and a rawhide loincloth. Eagle feathers stood up from his warbonnet. A leather shield covered his left arm, and he carried a feathered war spear in his right.

Without breaking stride, the mounted warrior screamed in angry defiance and rode straight for River Dog. He drew the war lance back smoothly, arm muscles rippling as he prepared to throw the lethal weapon.

3

Standing in front of the mirror in her room, Liz Parker took stock of her image. Okay, so do I look like someone barely holding it together here? Like somebody one short step from the edge?

The questions were fair ones. How many people could keep it together and face what she was facing? The whole your-boyfriend-is-an-alien thing had been a real stretch for the last year and a half, especially helping him seek out his home world. But coupled with the fact that Max had also fathered a child with someone he'd been married to in another life, someone who turned out to be the murderess of one of Liz's best friends, was more than anyone should have to handle.

And that's the real choice, isn't it? Liz asked her reflection. To deal or not to deal. Working out a relationship was hard enough between two normal people.