*Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters to Dr. Quinn or Tombstone. I'm just having a little fun.*

The cold winter winds blew rough shot through the saloon's swinging doors. They swung wildly inward smacking into a sallow drunkard, knocking him headlong on the sawdust-covered floor. A veracious uproar of laughter erupted among the company of prostitutes, gamblers, and drifting flotsam. As the hullabaloo died down the familiar sounds of clinking beer steins and tossed about poker chips took over. Thick cigar smoke rolled like a fog bank to and fro about the chilly room. Here and their sudden guffaws of laughter shot out amongst the rowdy revelers.

Hank watched the scene with his usual mixture of mischief and caution. From his perch behind the bar, he surveyed the room taking note that there was a resonating tension building from the high rollers booth towards the back. A stranger had rolled into town unnoticed by the busy body population of Colorado Springs. Hank never saw the man slip through the door, nor did he notice him take up residence at the booth. Yet there he sat with the top half of his face cast in shadow.

He had somewhat of an angular jaw for a man. Even from this distance, Hank could tell that he was not as he outwardly appeared. His hands were long and white as bone with a clammy feel about them. This was evident in the way he held his poker cards, constantly rubbing them against each other in a veiled attempt to gain friction. With his right hand, he held a heavy silver dollar between his thumb and index finger. As he waited calculating his opponents, hands the coin seemingly of its own accord flipped from index, to middle to ring, and finally to pinky only to retrace it's climb. The stranger's movements were smooth as silk, yet languid, and completely deliberate.

Hank sent his best girls to the table in hopes of gaining some kind of insight into the identity of the stranger. Yet each one was turned away with a simple wave of his hand. Hanks blue eyes roasted like blue infernos, in frustration. Something didn't smell right, and he couldn't bring himself to approach the darkness of the both.

"Gimme a whiskey," Jake's voice boomed into Hank's thoughts. He slapped two bits down on the scratched and worn bar top.

"Take the bottle," Hanks wisp of a voice replied, sliding the quarter filled whiskey bottle at Jake.

In one fluid motion, Jake swiped the bottle from the bar top and turned to face in the same direction as Hank. He narrowed his eyes at the stranger, as he swigged intently straight from the bottle. Leaning back so that he was perched on his elbows, Jake cocked his head down and raised his eyebrows.

"Well, now! Who's this?" he jauntily bobbed his head at Hank.

"Stranger," Hank said awestruck. "Turned down all my best girls."

Jake rolled his eyes, as he turned back in order to lean forward on the bar.

"Isn't every girl. . . Your best girl," he laughed partially drunk.

Hank raised his brow as he crossed his arms on his chest. He watched Jake lay his head lazily into his weak clumsy hand. His lips were pushed together in his usual grimace, and his eyes dragged heavy with disappointment.

"Stuck out?" Hank inferred. He'd seen Jake earlier that day pacing about the front of the schoolhouse in indecision.

"Does it count if you never make up to swing?" Jake laughed desperately.

"Qui non vult fieri desidiosus, amet," his southern drawl slithered into their ears ominously from behind. "That's Latin. . . Let him who would not be idle, fall in love."

The stranger stood like a serpent which had slid out from under its rock. The black brim of his hat continued to mask his face. However, now that he was closer Hank could see the pale feverish look of his skin. His blood drained lips smirk crookedly with an air of wickedness. Jake and Hank stood dumb in the presence of this predator of a man. After such a long pause, the stranger tipped his hat to them, never revealing his identity.

"I deduce the gentry of this fair town," he smirked smartly as he sauntered out the swinging doors. "To be unequal game. But a fresh daisy of a schoolmarm sounds the ticket."

She took her time walking through the dew damp meadow, passed the church. The freezing morning was overcast and wet from last night's rain. The grass seemed to sparkle as though it were scattered with emerald jewels. This was her preferred type of weather. Teresa tugged at the slender fitted sleeves of her maroon gingham dress. Hugging her books closer to her chest, she regretted her decision to step out with only her black knit shawl.

The wind blew about her helping soft tendrils of hair to fall in wavy wisps about her face. She sighed in frustration with the knowledge that once inside the warmth of the schoolhouse; those wisps would curl up into untamable ringlets. Laughing at herself silently, she realized she had taken extra care in getting ready this morning. She had subtly rouged her lips and had begun dabbing lemon juice about her face in a blatant attempt to lighten her skin. Teresa went to great pains to pin up her hair just right, and now it was wind blown and unkempt.

Though she would not admit it to herself, Mayor Slicker's constant presence at the schoolhouse left her flustered. The day before she watched him through the picture window of the school, walking up and down the dirt path with an unknown purpose. Whenever he reached the top, he'd freeze deep in contemplation, and then turn away in disdain. This man was a puzzlement to her with the way he stared dreamily into her face whenever they conversed.

However, one day he wasn't there. She found herself constantly casting glances out the window expecting to see his tall dashing frame strutting up the path. A pang had struck her heart then. Abashed she stood with the knowledge that she felt an attraction for the man. An icicle like fear pierced her heart at the thought that he had given up. That's when all this cosmetic grooming began.

She shuddered as an icy gale whip through her body. Reaching the path which was mostly mud now, she wondered if those heavy boot prints were his. Subconsciously her hand flew up and began tidying her hair as she climbed the slight slope to the door. Pulling the key to the schoolhouse from her skirt pocket, she stopped short. The door stood partially open and heat was emanating from within. Cautiously she crossed the threshold hoping to find an early bird sitting happily in the warmth of the room.

There he sat with his black leather boots propped up on one of the children's desks. His silver spurs dug deep into the varnished wooden desktop. The small heating furnace which sat behind him was lit and circulating the air. She felt the piercing gaze of his mossy green eyes as she tossed her books angrily onto her desk. Rising with the stealth of a deathly apparition before her, he mockingly smirked, as he bowed graciously to her.

"Mr. Holliday," she nodded to him feeling a combination of fear and regret.