A/N: Before I start, I would like to say that I am painfully aware that the character I've chosen to write about is a grossly unpopular one. That knowledge – coupled with the extremely high standard of writing that this fandom is known to enjoy - has made me more nervous about submitting this story than any other I've ever written. Although this story does link in strongly with Fear Itself, I'd already got most of the plot sorted out in my head before I saw the episode, which I was amazed seemed to lend itself very well to my idea. My intent is not to cause offence by writing about this character in a positive light. I am simply telling a story that my Muse couldn't let go of, even though I've actually fought it for several months now!
Despite the story's subject, I sincerely hope you'll enjoy the content.
I'd like to thank Dr Michaela Quinn for beta-ing my first two chapters for me.
Disclaimer: Dr Quinn Medicine Woman does not belong to me. She is a free-thinking, independent woman in her own right! Not only that, she and all her friends down in Colorado Springs were created by Beth Sullivan. I'm only borrowing one, nodding affectionately to another and bringing my own original character into the mix.
Heart of Gold
Chapter One
Preston knew that he was crinkling the papers on his desk by sitting on them so heavily. He didn't care. The last thing he had the stomach for was thinking about his new hotel, or his bank - or anything else aside from Isabelle. Thinking of Isabelle didn't help either. It only made him go to the dark place in his mind that he had tried to block out for so long.
Why did Michaela have to be so callous to him in front of her?
He didn't understand it. In many ways, he and Michaela should have got on like a house on fire. They were both from Boston, they had a similar social standing, similar educational backgrounds and much the same level of intellect. However, it seemed that nobody in town got under his skin or made him as angry as Dr Michaela Quinn did. She could be so presumptuous and judgmental! How dare she impugn wrong motives over his treatment of Isabelle?
At least he had tried to do something practical for Isabelle, which was far more than any of the other townsfolk had done. She had already decided to leave. What was he going to do? Beg her to stay, where he knew that every time she stepped outside people would stare at her in fear as though she were a rabid dog, and clear the streets for fear of catching leprosy? Isabelle didn't deserve to go through such humiliation day after day. Nobody did. It pained him to even think about it. The least he could do was support her decision, attempt make her journey more comfortable and try to ensure that she had the best possible medical care. After all, he still wasn't entirely satisfied that the best medical care available was from a heavily pregnant woman.
He ran his fingers through his thick, dark blond hair and then rubbed his hands over his face. It wasn't really Michaela's fault, he knew that. It wasn't fair of him to blame her. He should have been man enough not to run away in the first place. He should have done more to defend Isabelle in front of the townspeople. He should have - but he was afraid. Afraid of getting too close, afraid of allowing his emotions to control him again - and then losing her anyway. He couldn't go through that again.
Few people in Colorado Springs had many good words to say for Preston A Lodge III. Nobody particularly liked him. Nobody trusted him - possibly with the exception of his clerk, Myra. They spoke to him because he was the financial lynchpin of the town, but nobody would invite him for dinner or purposely seek out his company for any social reason. He could easily stand that level of loneliness. He had very little time for most of the townspeople, and he never lost a moment of sleep over their low opinion of him. Isabelle had been different. He could feel his harsh, self-important façade melt away when he was with her. It was obvious by the way that she looked at him, she would have seen through it in an instant anyway.
In so many ways, she was just like Clara. She had that look in her eyes, the way her chin tilted slightly as she looked at him, weighing him up, deciding what kind of person he was - and knowing she was right about him. She saw the world through fresh eyes and forced everyone else to do the same. She didn't judge, she didn't hate, she was unafraid and had no bitterness towards the hand Life had dealt her. She allowed people the freedom to be themselves.
It had only been a few days since he had first met her. The imprint Isabelle had left on his heart wasn't as deep as the one Clara had left. Perhaps she would be easy to forget. He sighed heavily and looked out of the window. The townspeople had already seemed to forget her, and were continuing with their mundane lives. He shook his head. He wished he had their selective amnesia.
Some days it was easy for him to not think about Clara. Some days he felt as though it had all been a beautiful dream and that she had never even existed. Some days, it was a little tougher. Some days it was all he could do to get out of bed. What was the point in carrying on without her?
"What's the matter? You think you're the only man who's lost someone they love?"
He could hear her voice, calm, gentle, contented, as she traced her fingers down the side of his stubbled face. He gulped and breathed deeply, fighting back the tear that threatened to burn its way over his lower lid. "No," he mouthed, shaking his head vigorously to get rid of the image in his mind.
He could be sure of gold - of money. They were the things that kept him grounded, stable, secure. People seemed to be the area where he really hadn't had the best of fortune. He looked down at his clenched right hand and started twisting the gold ring around his third finger. He knew exactly how much it was worth. He'd bought it. It had cost him two dollars, and had depreciated massively from the moment he walked out of the store with it. It had cost more than it was worth to get resized so it would fit him. It was the most financially idiotic purchase he had ever made. He smiled briefly to himself. It was the only tangible thing he had left of her. To anyone else it would be worth probably no more than twenty cents. To him, it was the one thing he viewed as having more value than the entire Lodge fortune.
Some days, Colorado Springs helped him to forget. Some days, especially since Isabelle had come to town, Colorado Springs was as full of her as Boston had been. He didn't fight it any more when memories of Clara flooded his conscious mind. He preferred those memories - when he knew she was gone - to his dreams of her. They were always vivid, always so real that he could feel her soft, firm skin beneath his fingertips, smell her cologne, run his hands through her raven-black hair as he kissed her. When he woke up and realised he'd been dreaming, the pain was almost too great for him to bear.
Clara Maguire. Nobody would have matched her with Preston. He was an affable enough boy, always happy to talk to anyone, made acquaintances easily, but never seemed to be able to form a relationship strong enough to be classed as a real friendship. As the youngest of five boys, he was used to being the butt of all his family's jokes through the years. He preferred to think that what he lacked in physical strength was more than matched by his sharp-witted comebacks and occasionally acrid tongue. Although this was a trait that had proved useful in his family circumstances, and occasionally in the world of finance - in the presence of day-to-day society, he soon learned that such behaviour could not be tolerated. It was a trait that he had spent considerable time in overcoming, however, on occasion he still couldn't resist an opportunity to needle two opposing parties in an argument, just to see what would happen. This was never done with any real degree of malice, just boyish mischief. There was something extremely satisfying about playing Devil's advocate, after all.
He was a dreamer, he had high hopes and big plans, coupled with the drive and determination to see them through. It wasn't money that he loved in itself, particularly - it was what it could do, the things it could help people to achieve, that fascinated him the most.
Clara was five years older than Preston – bright, bubbly and vivacious. She would throw her head back and roar with laughter unashamedly, not caring a jot about the looks of horror that other women and men would pass at her seeming lack of decorum. She could match any man drink for drink, and speak her mind in the most eloquent, articulate manner. There were no airs, no graces with her - but there was no doubt in anyone's mind, she was all woman. All the woman he'd ever wanted. She had moved to Boston around eighteen months before he left town. One day, she breezed into his father's bank, where he worked as a cashier, walked right up to his counter and beamed at him.
"I'd like to open an account," she declared in a thick Irish accent. His eyes widened, caught completely off-guard. Nobody had ever looked so pleased to walk into a bank. Most people who walked into banks looked grave with worry. Especially the ones who had plenty of money.
"Ma'am?" he'd stammered. She smiled again.
"Somewhere safe to store my money. That's what banks do, isn't it?" she asked, a faint smile playing on her lips. She was teasing him. He blinked once or twice and shook his head briskly, feeling his cheeks burning bright red as she looked at him.
"Uh... I... sure, yes," he spluttered. She reached her hand out and touched his fingers lightly through the bars of the counter. Electricity coursed through his body so strongly that he gasped. "Uhm..." he added, opening and closing his mouth, utterly embarrassed and at a complete loss for words. This was so unlike him. Normally he could talk to anyone easily. He had never been so tongue-tied in his life. It was altogether peculiar.
"Do you want to go fetch someone who can speak English?" she asked, a little concerned. He nodded shakily and disappeared.
"Father, there's a – well... there's a woman in here!" he began, in a bewildered tone. His father frowned at him.
"Did she come in here with the intention of holding up the bank?" he asked, almost worried. Preston shook his head and looked helpless. "For heaven's sake, boy! Have you never spoken to a woman before?" he demanded. Preston shook his head again.
"Not like this one!" he replied.
"Well, go out there and make sure she puts her money in our bank!" Preston A Lodge II insisted, half-pushing his son back to the counter.
Preston's legs felt funny. He didn't know why. He'd spoken to women before, of course he had. Old women, young women, it didn't matter. He'd spoken to far more beautiful women than the one stood before him. She was tall for a woman, almost as tall as he was, and had long, black hair that fell down her back in ringlets. Almost straight away, the woman's emerald-green eyes seemed to see straight through him, as though all of his innermost thoughts and feelings were utterly exposed to her. It was a truly unnerving sensation – one that he couldn't quite decide if he liked or not. Taking a deep breath and straightening his back, he returned to the counter. She beamed at him again. He didn't know what to do aside from smile back at her.
"Hello again," she began. He felt his smile widening. "You know, you should really smile more often. Sure, you'd get the women racing through the doors to hand their money over," she told him. He was visibly taken aback. She didn't so much as flinch when she said it. It was as though she was stating fact rather than paying a compliment.
"Uhm... thank you," he finally answered. "You said you'd like to open an account here, Mrs, uhm..."
"No. Not Uhm. Maguire. Clara Maguire," she corrected him, her eyes twinkling and an impish grin playing on her lips. "And yes, I'd like to open an account. A business account," she explained. He nodded.
"Oh, for your husband?" he asked, innocently. She chuckled.
"If I had a husband, I'd get him to do his own dirty work," she replied. "It's my own business." He grinned at her.
"You have your own business?" he asked, failing to hide his surprise at her statement. Her eyes darkened slightly.
"May I ask which you find more incredible? The idea that a woman can conduct a business by herself, or that she could make money from doing so?" she inquired, raising an eyebrow.
"Neither!" he protested. "I... I was just going to ask what you did," he told her, truthfully.
"Are you asking in a professional capacity or a personal one?" she asked. He couldn't help but grin widely at her.
"Let's say personal, shall we?" he heard himself reply, as he leaned conspiratorially against the counter. He could practically feel his father's eyes burning into his back. He had told him to open a new account for a customer, not to fraternise with her! She'd come into the bank on a purely business matter, not to have the young, scrawny cashier flirt outrageously with her! What was he thinking?
To his relief, she grinned back at him.
"That smile is going to get one of us into trouble someday," she prophesied. "I'm a writer," she told him. He chuckled and she frowned. "What's so funny?" she asked, defensively.
"You make a living from writing?" he asked. She raised an eyebrow.
"You make a living from standing behind a counter asking fool questions?" she retorted. He chuckled again.
"Touché," he relented, raising his hands in defeat. Her smile returned.
For days afterward, they seemed to accidentally bump into one another frequently. It helped that he had her address details and she knew where he worked. Although nothing was said about it, both knew that their 'accidental' meetings had required considerable forethought.
"Good morning, Miss Maguire," he'd begin, tipping his hat cordially. His eyes would gleam with mischief and a wolfish grin would take over his entire face. She'd grin back at him and nod her head in reply.
"Mr Lodge," she'd respond, politely. "Still trying to escape from your father's bank?"
"Still getting caught out!" he'd shoot back at her with a wink.
Neither of them would stop walking, happy to continue in their separate ways, until one day, Clara avoided eye contact with him completely. He stopped and frowned.
"Miss Maguire?" he called after her, turning around as she passed him. She continued walking, slowly. More of a trudge than her usual, confident walk. He quickened his pace and caught up with her easily. "Clara?" he began, quietly, squeezing her arm gently. She stopped and looked up at him.
"Oh. Hello," she answered, vaguely, smiling politely. His brow furrowed with concern.
"Is everything all right?" he asked, worried. She sighed, weighing his question up carefully before responding.
"I'll be fine, thank you," she finally replied. His face softened.
"Is there anything I can do?" he asked, kindly. She looked up at him and gazed for a moment into his eyes, trying and failing to find any untrustworthiness behind them. Finally she smiled softly at him.
"No, I'm afraid not. Thank you for asking, though," she answered, walking away from him. The spring hadn't returned to her step, and her walk still was technically a trudge. He caught up to her again.
"I don't mean to be a nuisance, but... I mean... you don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he tried to explain.
"I don't," she replied, sharply, refusing to look up at him. He paused and nodded.
"Very well. If you change your mind, I have some business to attend to out of town tomorrow. I can't imagine it being an enjoyable journey without a friend for company. Perhaps a change of scenery might help you put your problem into perspective," he suggested. She finally turned and looked up at him. He felt his cheeks burn as a smile crept over his face.
"You're very kind. Thank you. May I have time to consider your offer?" she asked. He grinned at her, his eyes glinting cheekily.
"Of course. My train leaves at eight tomorrow morning. If you're not at the station, I'll presume your answer is 'no'," he replied. She nodded.
"Eight," she repeated. "Thank you, Mr Lodge."
"Preston," he corrected her. She beamed at him.
He watched her walk away, far happier than she had been five minutes earlier. As soon as he was sure that she was out of sight, he turned and ran back into the bank.
"Father, I need to speak to you right away!" he insisted, rushing behind the counter and dragging his father into the office and away from the customer he was speaking to.
"For God's sake, Preston! Remember where you are!" he scolded him, his tone taking on the same hushed reverence as if Preston had sworn in church.
"I can't work tomorrow," he blurted out. His father's eyes widened.
"You can't?" he asked.
"I'd explain, but it would take too long. I don't care about losing a day's pay. Something more important has come up," he told him. His father looked dumbfounded.
"More important than earning a day's pay in my bank?" he asked, incredulously. Preston nodded. "I don't believe you! Nothing can be more important than that! Don't be ridiculous. No, you can't take tomorrow off."
Preston jutted his jaw slightly in derision as he drew himself to his full height and met his father's disapproving glare without flinching.
"Father. If you don't agree to let me take tomorrow off, I will sit at the front desk and insist that all of your customers take their business elsewhere. I'll close accounts, call in loans and be thoroughly obnoxious to everybody," he warned him. "And don't believe I wouldn't," he added. Preston Senior sighed. He knew that his son had no qualms about saying the most inappropriate of things to the worst of people at the best of times.
"Very well," he relented. Preston grinned. "What are you doing tomorrow?" he asked, his curiosity now piqued by the thought of anybody doing anything more important than working for him in his bank.
"I'm taking practical steps to ensure my future personal happiness, possibly at the cost of my financial security," Preston replied, mysteriously, almost ready to burst with excitement.