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glancing around.
    “Over there. I just glimpsed him. Or thought I did.”
    The two of them scanned the crowd.
    “Must have been someone who looked like Kennan,” Stoddard said at last with a shake of his head.
    Gerard agreed with a curt nod, but his gut didn’t believe it. And if Kennan was here, why would he avoid them? It didn’t make sense.
    Stoddard hailed a friend and hurried a bit forward. Gerard turned to follow him and found the man who’d stared at him with malice standing right in front of him. Blocking his way. “May I help you?”
    “No.” The man did not move.
    “Have we met?” Gerard asked, nettled.
    “Not formally. No.” The man spoke with a familiar accent, but not the one Stoddard and Gerard shared. This voice held the flavors of both Boston and Ireland, Gerard thought. But he didn’t recognize this man.
    Not wanting to start a fight, Gerard could think of no reply except “If you’ll excuse me, I must join my friend.”
    “Of course.” The stranger grinned unpleasantly, turned, and walked away.
    Gerard noticed that the crowd parted like the Red Sea, giving the stranger a wide berth, and then swallowed him up.
    Stoddard touched Gerard’s elbow. “Come, I want you to meet someone.”
    “Did you know who that man was?” Gerard motioned toward where the retreating figure had gone.
    “I wasn’t paying attention. Come on,” Stoddard urged. “The first race is about to begin.”
    Gerard let himself be led away, but meeting this stranger left him feeling unsettled, vaguely troubled. He shook it off and shouldered his way to the front to watch the first race. A worry niggled at the back of his mind. Stoddard was right: When Gerard still had no concept of how to make a living here, why was he betting money he couldn’t afford to lose? He could only hope Kentucky Pride would win.

    SEPTEMBER 2, 1848
    In the autumn twilight a day later, Gerard walked sedately beside Stoddard. Miss Foster—Tippy—and her parents had invited them to dine. Apparently Stoddard was as firmly in her clutches as ever. Gerard wanted to grab his cousin and pull him away, head down the bluff to the wharf, where they could lift a glass and laugh and perhaps sing, forget the fact that neither of his horses had won their races the day before. Instead they were headed for a dinner party, a social obligation, a collar-tightening bore.
    The girl’s parents must be in transports over a catch like Stoddard Henry—a handsome, socially prominent, and well-educated man. Gerard sneered at the thought. But how could he counter their stratagems to gain such a son-in-law?
    “I know you’ve come to save me from Tippy,” Stoddard said baldly, blandly. “But I don’t need saving.”
    Before Gerard could think of a reply to this sudden frankness, Stoddard called out, “This is the house.” It was a three-story home on a corner lot with a large garden. And Gerard didn’t like how his cousin’s step quickened as if he couldn’t wait to get inside. Gerard was depressed. Kennan in the bottle and Stoddard “in love.” It was disgusting.
    Stoddard all but ran up the steps, grinning like a fool.
    A somber butler opened the door—a black man with a head of hair that resembled silver wool.
    Gerard had rarely seen black servants. He studied the man.
    “Mr. Stoddard, good to see you, sir,” the butler said with a Southern accent.
    Stoddard greeted the man and added, “George, this is my cousin Gerard Ramsay of Boston.”
    The butler bowed slightly. “Please step in, Mr. Ramsay. Welcome to Cincinnati, the Queen City of the West.”
    The grand greeting, spoken with evident pride, threw Gerard off stride. He nodded and gave the man his hat and gloves as he entered the home. Inside the house smelled of lemon oil and good food. Gerard’s mouth watered at the fragrance of roasted fowl. Well, at least he might get a good meal here. If his stomach would let him enjoy it.
    The butler showed them to the parlor, decorated in deep rose and