A/N: I had decided pretty soon after the end of Heart of Gold that there would be a sequel. I just didn't expect it to take so long to get round to writing it! The exact story didn't quite come to me properly until recently. The DQMW writers' plans for Preston in the never-to-be-realised Season Seven frankly proved far too tempting an idea for me to leave alone!

I know it's an unpopular opinion, but I do genuinely believe that Preston's character was far more delicately nuanced and three-dimensional than just the pantomime villain caricature he portrayed to the town. We never really got to see him in his quiet, alone moments where he didn't feel the need to be 'Preston A Lodge III' and could just be himself, which was a shame. There seemed to be so much more to him than met the eye, it would have been wonderful to have had the opportunity to scrape under the surface with him a little.

Disclaimer: Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman and all her pals were created by Beth Sullivan. Apparently, it turns out that Colorado Springs is a genuine, real live place, though. I only own my OC, any other incidental characters I may need to bring in during the course of the story, and an unashamed love of a certain sharp-suited, twinkly-eyed banker with floppy hair and a disarming smile...!

Heart of Stone

Prologue

April 14, 1875

Preston

I trust this letter finds you in good health. After some consideration and discussion, it has been decided that you need some stability in your life. Consequently, a package will be arriving for you on the Boston train on Friday afternoon. See that you handle it with care. Your mother sends her regards.

Your Father

Preston rarely received any correspondence from his father. Since the Crisis a couple of years earlier, there had been very little for them to discuss. He had never been in his father's good graces to begin with, and the Crisis had destroyed any small shred of paternal emotion that may have remained. Perhaps that was the reason he had read and re-read the letter countless times since he had received it almost a week earlier – it had been the first civil contact his father had made with him in years. It was now Friday morning and the package, whatever it was, was probably heading over to Colorado Springs at that very moment.

A package? For him? From his father? Why? What could his father possibly send him that would add any form of stability to his life? Money? Bonds? A plethora of questions raced around his brain so quickly that he could barely focus on one of them long enough to think it through properly.

The frown-lines on Preston's forehead had deepened over the past two years. Sleepless nights coupled with long, laborious days of hard work for little recompense had taken their toll on his once handsome features. Dark circles had settled under his eyes, stress and exhaustion had destroyed his appetite, leaving him looking pale and gaunt. He rarely smiled, as he had little cause for mirth. There were no friends, there had never been any real friends for him in Colorado Springs. There was no joy, there was nothing to alleviate the worry and turmoil that had become his life. There was only his grim determination to not go under, coupled with a stubborn need to show the townsfolk – whom he swore he had no feelings for, either good or bad, as they mattered so little to him – that he was made of sterner mettle than they imagined.

Perhaps, he had often thought, his current plight was no more than he deserved. In his quest to become rich, to procure power for himself and in the hope of leading Colorado Springs to the future of civilisation, he had lost sight of who he really was. He had led a very lonely existence since arriving in Colorado Springs and, despite the heavy workload he had placed himself under, both before and after the Crisis, there was only ever silence and exhaustion to comfort him at the end of his day. The old idiom about only getting one chance to make a first impression had proved absolutely true in Preston's case. Everyone's opinion of him was formed, fixed and sealed when he made the decision to cut down the Kissing Tree – and inadvertently injure both himself and Matthew Cooper in the process. There had never been anything he could do after that to change people's minds about him and, after coming to that realisation, he had learned very quickly that it was infinitely more fun to antagonise them than to pander to them.

There had been small and occasional opportunities for him to build lasting friendships with certain members of the townsfolk, especially Andrew. There were nights, there were days in which he missed Andrew terribly. Andrew always seemed to know just what to say to Preston. Even if Preston hadn't wanted to hear it, the way Andrew presented ideas and problems to him were always done in just the right way. Andrew understood him far better than anyone else in Colorado Springs had ever done. It had always been a pleasure when he had allowed Andrew to get the best of him in a difference of opinion. He had been the only person Preston had actually cared about in Colorado Springs. Now Andrew and his wife were both living in Pennsylvania and Preston only saw him from afar on the odd occasions they came to visit Colleen's family. Preston knew he only had himself to blame for the deterioration of that friendship. He often longed for a way to patch things up between them, but he supposed that the opportunity would never arise.

He traced his fingertips over the writing on the letter from his father. The tone of the letter was as cold and unfeeling as anything from his father would ever sound, yet it had been the only thing that had given him any hope over the preceding few months. He even dared to hope for one silly, frivolous moment, that the 'package' would be his mother. Just the thought of her would make him feel better – the way she would stroke his hair and smile at him, the way that even though he was a clear twelve inches taller than her, her arms still managed to be long enough for her to completely wrap him in a warm embrace the way she used to do when he was a small boy. Her gentle, kind voice that warmed his heart and poured calming oil onto his troubled soul. Yes, a visit from his mother would be just the medicine he needed.

Dusting down his favourite, but now faded and slightly frayed burgundy-coloured suit and wide-brimmed hat, he got ready to meet the train. If he was going to collect anything to help him in a business-related capacity, he had to dress appropriately.

"Clothes maketh man, after all," he muttered to himself as he fastened his tie in the mirror. He checked that he hadn't nicked himself while he was shaving and that his sideburns matched, then forced a smile for the mirror. He looked older and more tired, but he was still Preston Lodge. The Third. There was still a sharp twinkle lurking in the corner of his eye, it had just been too long since anyone had seen it.

He waited quietly at the platform, his expression stern and fixed, only nodding to those who made eye contact with him. He was no longer the town peacock, strutting and parading along the streets in all his finery as though he owned the place. If that had ever truly been his ambition, it had been shattered long ago. His stomach lurched as he saw the train on the horizon, slowly and purposefully steaming towards the town, bringing something of significance to Preston's future with him. Whatever was on that train, he knew that nothing would ever be the same again from that moment onward. It was a glorious thought, as the last two years had been tremendously difficult for him, emotionally as well as financially. Anything that would change his current pitiful existence for the better was to be welcomed eagerly, as far as he was concerned.

The train eventually ground to a halt at the station and Preston continued to wait patiently until the passengers had alighted and the parcels were moved to the telegraph office. When the initial furore of the train's arrival had subsided, Preston made his way to the office.

"Horace, is there a parcel for me?" he called out.

"Nothin's arrived for you, Preston," Horace answered, his tone as curt and unhelpful as it ever was where Preston was concerned. Preston frowned.

"My father specifically wrote me to say he was sending me a package on the Friday afternoon train from Boston," he said, waving his letter in front of Horace's face.

"I can't help what your father wrote. There's nothin' for you here. You understand?" Horace retorted. Preston rolled his eyes. He knew exactly what Horace meant, the entire town had tried in their own unsubtle ways to get him to pack up and leave Colorado Springs for good, especially over the last two years. They should have known him well enough to realise that their disdain only fuelled his stubborn desire to stay exactly where he was.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for a Mr Lodge," a voice from behind Preston said. He felt a gentle tap on his right shoulder blade and turned around. Before him stood a young woman in her late twenties. She had blonde hair, bright, intelligent blue eyes and a mischievous smile. A natural smile spread across his face for the first time in far too long as he met her expectant gaze.

"You've found him," he said, offering her his hand which she shook cordially. "Are you the courier my father sent?" he asked, hopefully.

"Courier?" she repeated, frowning slightly in confusion. "I'm afraid I don't understand." Preston handed the letter to the woman and she scanned the contents briefly. She raised an eyebrow and let out a murmur of derision as she looked back up at him. "I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding, Mr Lodge."

"A misunderstanding?"

"Yes. You see, I'm not a courier. For want of a better term – and I can assure you that there are far better terms that could have been used in this particular instance – it would appear that I am the package that your father sent," she said. Preston's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"You?" he asked. She raised he eyebrows briefly and inclined her head slightly. "Well, I must admit I'm not displeased with the wrapping!" he said, a wolfish grin pervading his entire face as he spoke. She flushed bright pink as she smiled shyly and looked at the ground but didn't reply. "Why has my father sent you to me?"

"This is putting me in a very awkward position. I was under the impression that you knew exactly what the arrangement was," she said. Preston looked at her blankly.

"I don't know about any arrangement. This is the first correspondence my father has sent to me in almost eighteen months," he said. She sighed and shook her head.

"There really isn't a more delicate way for me to put this, Mr Lodge – but your father has corresponded with me for many months now, and has asked me to come out to Colorado Springs as, well," she broke off, searching frantically for an appropriate term to use.

"As what? As my housekeeper? I'm afraid I don't have much of a house to keep," he said. She shook her head again.

"Not as your housekeeper, something a little more intimate than that," she said. Preston took a step back and looked at her curiously.

Her next sentence came so far out of left field that Preston didn't even know how to react to it.

"Your father has asked me to come to Colorado Springs to be your wife."