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what it was to lose his temper. And she had never lost hers in those years either. Now, with this Marine officer, it was like the Fourth of July every time they got within ten feet of one another. Paul had taught her to control her emotions. But Matt Breckenridge actually seemed to enjoy her outbursts. She sighed loudly, utterly confused and drained by the day’s events. She didn’t mean to, but she plunged into a deep, healing sleep almost immediately.

Chapter Three
    A lanna moaned, partially aware of a hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently awake. She rolled over on her back, sleepily opening her eyes. Matt Breckenridge’s concerned face came into view in the darkness. She frowned, almost frightened by the shadows that played across his strong, masculine face as he watched her.
    “Uh,” she groaned, slowly moving up into a sitting position, “what time is it?”
    “Twenty-one hundred, or 9 p.m. to you civilians,” he said with a half-smile. He rested back on his haunches, frowning. “You all right? You look pale as hell.”
    Alanna sleepily rubbed her eyes, pulling the blanket around her for warmth. The room seemed damper and colder as she looked around. A small kerosene lantern sat in the corner, giving off a weak semblance of light to the room and an odor that made her wrinkle her nose. “Yes—I’m fine. Just terribly tired.”
    “So it’s true what they say about Senator Thornton, then. He works his people likes slaves.”
    It was a statement. Not a question. Groggy and too weary to throw up her usual barriers of defense, she said, “I already put in seventy hours this week. Usually it’s only sixty.”
    He shook his head slowly. “No wonder you’re underweight. Don’t you have anyone who takes care of you?”
    A knot formed in her throat, and she closed her eyes for a moment. “I can take care of myself.”
    “Well, you need someone to help you expend all that energy you have,” he answered gruffly, getting to his feet.
    Alanna yawned, still wrapped in the euphoric embrace of awakening. The Colonel seemed infinitely more gentle now, and she felt herself relaxing for the first time since they had met. His booted feet sounded hollowly against the floor boards as he stopped and squatted back down in front of her. “Here’s dinner,” he said, handing her a Marine Corps issue mess kit. “When I got back, you were sleeping like there was no tomorrow. I decided that you needed sleep more than food. It’s cold but palatable.”
    She took the lightweight metal plate, staring at the heaping amount of food piled on it. “There’s so much!” she protested softly, giving him a stricken look. “I don’t want to take food from the survivors.”
    He sat down by her, pulling up one leg and wrapping his arms about it, giving her an odd, searching look. “You’re sincere, aren’t you?”
    She set the plate down on her lap. “Yes. Of course.”
    “Good. It becomes you. Maybe you’re not the typical Hill politico after all. And don’t worry, I didn’t pull this food out of the starving mouth of some refugee. Now be quiet and eat.”
    Occasionally she glanced up at him as she wolfed down the food. It consisted of refried beans, corn mush, and a small piece of fried Spam, but it tasted delicious. To her own surprise, she ate every morsel. “I guess the mountain air improves the appetite,” she offered sheepishly.
    He took the plate, setting it by his side, and met her smile. In the gloom, he looked haggard and drawn, and Alanna wondered how long it had been since he had slept. “How are things going?” she inquired.
    “Let’s put it this way, Murphy’s law hasn’t got anything on us at the moment,” he commented wryly.
    Alanna laughed gently. “The axiom about ‘if anything can go wrong it will’?”
    “Yes. And there’s an extension to that law: ‘nothing is ever so bad that it can’t get worse,’ and that’s exactly where we’re at right now.” He rubbed his forehead in