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silver hair and an air of unquestioned authority. Though dressed in a dark suit, the man looked as if he’d be more comfortable in military fatigues and lugging an assault rifle like Turner still had slung over his shoulder. Noticing our entrance, he picked up a thick folder from a nearby desk with my name printed on the tab.
    “Mike Thatch, Special Agent in Charge of CAT,” he said in greeting. “Please come with me to the conference room, Ms. Calhoun.”
    Before I could follow, Gordon pushed Thatch out of the way and grabbed my shoulders.
    “When I heard that someone had attacked you and that there’d been a murder, I refused to believe it. Across the street from the White House? This is impossible! I should have never allowed you to go out there alone. It was too dark, too stormy. This is my fault that you’re hurt. But I never imagined it would be dangerous. Look at you.” He shook me in agitation. “You’re bleeding.”
    “I—I’m okay.” I had to pry his sweet but strong grip from my shoulders. My head simply couldn’t take any more rattling about without great risk of seeing my breakfast again . . . all over Gordon’s work boots. “Are those new? When did you get them?”
    “These things?” Gordon frowned at the dark leather boots on his feet. “Last weekend. Thought today would be a good day to try them out.”
    Although he planned on attending the presentation I’d prepared, not even an important meeting with the First Lady could get Gordon into a tie. But apparently he’d bought new boots for the occasion.
    “I don’t understand what you were doing out there at this time of morning, Casey,” Ambrose said. “And all by yourself.” His voice sounded tighter than usual. He looked me over from head to toe and rolled his eyes at my muddy self.
    Ambrose’s style hailed from an earlier, more formal era. He prided himself on running an efficient White House and had stressed to each and every employee working under him that he would not tolerate any behavior that disrupted the steady flow of day-to-day operations.
    But instead of scolding me for working in the Lafayette Square flowerbeds alone and at such an early hour, as I’d expected, he pressed one of his starched, hand-embroidered handkerchiefs into my hand and raised it to my throbbing temple.
    Tears sprang to my eyes. I’d never expected such kindness from him.
    “Thanks,” I said.
    “You were about to drip blood on the carpet,” he pointed out. The corner of his mouth twitched, a nervous tic I’d heard he developed whenever he was under considerable stress.
    “Of course, the carpet. What had I been thinking?” I pressed the handkerchief firmly to my temple, wincing at the tender lump forming there.
    “Here, let me have a look.” Dr. Stan had come prepared with a first-aid kit complete with antiseptic wipes and bandages of all shapes and sizes. With a deft touch, he cleaned the mud from my face and wound and gently probed the bruised areas on my head and neck.
    “I’m concerned about the blow she took to the head. She’d started to black out at the crime scene,” Turner reported as Dr. Stan stuck a large bandage to the side of my face. “I’ve kept her on her feet and moving.”
    Really? Turner had insisted on that quick march to keep me from passing out? Had I mistaken concern for annoyance? Perhaps he didn’t believe I was a flake after all.
    I tried to turn and see if I could detect a change in him, a softening in his attitude toward me. But Dr. Stan grabbed my chin and shined a penlight in my eyes. He asked me to look up and down, left and right. When I finally had a chance to look at Jack Turner, the fearless and, I hoped, forgiving member of the elite Counter Attack Team, he was gone.
     
    I’D SPENT MANY SEASONS IN THE GARDEN. MY time there had taught me the difficult art of patience, a trait that didn’t come naturally. Plants grow and develop at their own rate with absolutely no regard to anyone’s schedule.