It was true. Once he’d provided security for six months on payroll trains as they traveled to army encampments throughout the United States. He’d planned reconnaissance, surveyed routes, organized transfers, and successfully fought off two attempted train robberies, but he was done. Wilkie couldn’t ask this of him. It was true that no one knew more about securing the safety of a target-rich train than he did, but he couldn’t go on. Three months of constant vigilance, seven days a week, had taken its toll. Even now it felt like steel bands tightening around his chest.

“John, don’t ask this of me.”

“I’m asking. I don’t want to, but it’s the right thing to do, and we both know it.”

There was no need for elaboration. If the cross-country tour didn’t exist, Wilkie would gladly let Nathaniel go back to investigating counterfeit. That wasn’t the case, and there was no need to dwell on impossibilities. Nathaniel stared at a street sweeper in the distance as suffocating walls closed in around him, making it hard to breathe.

“All right. I’ll do it,” he said.

He was in a foul mood all the way back to the White House. The weather was getting worse, with sleet turning into snow as he approached the iron railing encircling the White House lawn. As he passed through the gates, it felt like walking into a prison.

He choked back his distaste and assumed a mask of calm professionalism. He’d always been able to hide his emotions, locking them down so firmly that no one would ever suspect the cauldron boiling beneath the surface. He nodded to the sentry at the front door and exchanged pleasantries with the cook as he asked her to make a sandwich he could take to his office.

“And a glass of milk, please.” It would help with the ulcer starting to burn in the pit of his gut.

The cook beamed as she bought him a glass. “What a fine young man you are! Most men want a beer with their dinner, but I like that you prefer milk. You’re the sort who would never drink alcohol in the White House, even after hours.”

“True,” he conceded, wishing he had the ability to take life a little less seriously. He breathed a sigh of relief as he left the kitchen and headed toward his office. No one downstairs suspected his panic.

He’d just sat down at his desk to eat his sandwich when Caroline appeared in his doorway.

“Good, you’re here,” she said with a smile. Then it vanished. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Yes, it is. You look all stiff and grim. Has something bad happened?”

It was annoying that Caroline could see through him so easily. He had no intention of discussing this weakness with her. “What do you need?”