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either.” A moment of silence stretched between them. Gerard listened to the city sounds outside the window—peddlers calling out their wares, the creak of wagons and the hoofbeats of horses, the voices of children. Stoddard was as concerned about their old friend as he was. No wonder Gerard had imagined seeing him here. But what could they do to halt Kennan’s descent? Nothing.
    Gerard silently promised himself not to lose Stoddard, too. If he had to reside for months in this “provincial backwater” bringing Stoddard to his senses, it would be time well spent. But, he reminded himself, for all he knew, Stoddard’s fascination with the pretty suffragist had already faded.
    The thought of her Quakeress companion entered his mind till he booted it out.

    SEPTEMBER 1, 1848
    The next day, another that was sunny and warm, Stoddard suggested seeing some of the sights of Cincinnati. Gerard was pleasantly surprised when one of these sights proved to be an afternoon horse race just outside the city. His cousin had always loved horse racing. After all, Stoddard had met that pretty blonde in Saratoga Springs, which was noted for its races. As they stepped down from the borrowed gig, Gerard couldn’t hold back a smile.
    The open field carved out of the forest showed signs that this was not the first race held here. A track had been dragged and covered in sawdust. Jockeys walked their horses nearby. The familiar raucous excitement of men gathered around bookmakers livened the atmosphere. It was impossible not to feel it, catch it.
    “Kentucky breeds really fine thoroughbred horses,” Stoddard was saying. “The races can be exciting.”
    Gerard started toward the most reputable-looking bookmaker, then paused. He needed to get his bearings. “Which bookmaker do you usually choose?”
    Stoddard looked surprised. “I don’t waste money on betting.”
    Since when? Gerard stifled his response. If he was right about who had caused this change, he needed to use subtlety. “Cousin,” Gerard coaxed, “how much fun is a horse race if one hasn’t placed a bet? Come on.” He gestured for Stoddard to follow him and continued toward the bookmaker.
    Stoddard came along but with such obvious reluctancethat Gerard silently cursed Miss Foster for her bluestocking influence. A gentleman was entitled to his entertainments. And leave it to a woman to take all the fun out of life.
    “What’s the favored horse?” Gerard called to the bookmaker over the heads of other betting customers.
    “Fate’s Fancy in the third race,” the man replied, handing out scribbled betting slips to the crowd. “Odds two to one.”
    “What’s the long shot?”
    “Kentucky Pride in the first race. Odds fourteen to one.” The man turned to dicker with another customer.
    Gerard pulled out his purse and shook out two gold dollars.
    “Have you any idea what you’re doing?” Stoddard murmured close to Gerard’s ear.
    Stoddard’s words and concerned tone goaded Gerard. “Two dollars on Kentucky Pride!” he called out to the bookmaker.
    Stoddard’s exclamation was loud and frustrated. “If you want to throw money away . . .”
    A man’s face at the edge of the milling bettors caught Gerard’s attention. For a moment he felt the man’s animosity like a punch in the gut. Holding up his two dollars to the bookmaker, he stared at the well-dressed stranger. Did he know him?
    The crowd shifted, coming between them. Gerard accepted the betting slip without even looking at it, craning his neck. When the throng parted, the man had disappeared from sight. Who was he? Did they know each other from somewhere?
    Gerard stepped back, still musing. Then he thought hesaw Kennan again, just a moving figure at the edge of the crowd near where the stranger had been standing. Unsettled, Gerard closed and then opened his eyes, blinking. “Did you see him?”
    At his elbow Stoddard replied, “Who?”
    “I thought I saw Kennan.”
    “Really? Where?” Stoddard was