Prologue

It was eleven years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday, that fateful day in 1884.

Even then, the woman the world knew as 'Touchstone' Theresa was ageless. She wasn't young, but she wasn't old, either. She was beautiful to a small boy like me, and not just because she brought me the hope of being taken away.

You see, she found me in an orphanage, a child of eight years, clutching my little dusty twig cross. She was (as I later found out) just shy of six feet tall, a giant of a woman. Her hair, curly and light brown, was wrapped up in a red scarf. She wore dark leather over a white shirt that dipped low, exposing a burgundy gem nestled in the center of her chest; her namesake. On her hands were equally dark gloves, and soft buckskin pants that looked Indian-made. Her spurs, which shined silver, wasn't the only metal she wore. From two crossing belts lined with bullets at her waist hung gun holsters, at the time empty.

Theresa was, and still is, a gunfighter.

The woman we all falsely called mother had us line up, like we always did when an adult came, and Theresa strode down our line like a Union Lieutenant we'd sometimes see in town inspecting the rank-and-file. She peered at us from her seemingly towering height. As she went, for some, she'd bend down to our level, take our chins in her hands, and stare us in the eyes. Many of the older children looked away when she did this, but when she got to me, I was determined not to look away. I kept that gaze with every fiber of my being. I had to get out. I had to.

I think I frowned at some point in my determination, because she smirked at me, stood, and went on to the next child. Even so, I was elated; I was the first she'd smiled at.

And so it happened, when Theresa and our 'mother' left the room, that the papers for my adoption were signed. Our keeper never did ask why Touchstone had no family name, nor why she didn't seem to care what my name was.

With a smile not quite motherly, she'd taken my hand in her rough gloved one, swung me up on her horse outside, and leapt easily on after me. We'd plogged away from the old building and down the dusty Carson City street.

"You're my kid now, yes?" she'd asked. Uneasy, I'd agreed. She'd smiled, even if I couldn't see it.

"Everyone knows me as 'Touchstone Theresa.' In public, you call me that. Anytime else, you call me Jane." She'd said smoothly.

"Jane?" I'd asked, confused.

"My birth name." she'd replied. "And for now, you're 'Kid.'"

I definitely remember frowning at that. "But, my name is-"

"Kid," she had snapped, "What was it like at that orphanage?"

My eyes burned with tears from what I'd taken as a threat, and had shut up.

"That was an honest question," she said more gently.

I'd been hesitant from humility, but I did answer. "Bad."

"Who you were then doesn't matter," she'd started, her tone reflecting the 'this is important and fateful,' aspect, but I listened nonetheless. "Which is why you will no longer use the name. You'll make yourself a new one."

I looked up at her face, mostly obstructed by chin. "Like yours?"

She'd smiled warmly, maternally, and looked down at me. "Like mine."

Chapter 1

Yes, I admit it - I, the renown 'Cross Kid,' like to play poker. I don't overplay, mind, so don't go thinking I'm a big gambler or something. Only, I guess I am. Anyway, poker is the main source of revenue for us. A gunfighter's occupation is not a cheap one. Bullets, gun oil, repair jobs - they all cost money, and shooting things isn't usually profitable unless you work for the honorable president - which we don't - or you rob banks - which we also refrain from. Usually.

So, back to conning - I mean, poker. Touchstone taught me everything I know about the game, including some things no one else, or at least precious few others, don't. When I say she's a phenomenal card player, she's more than just good with lady Luck, counting, and those other tricks you may have heard of. She's a con artist too, and a damn good one. She reads people better than I care to know how she learned to do it, and she can accurately act upon what she learns. She knows what to bet, how to bluff, the whole nine yards, and I swear she gets in the other players' minds just to figure out how to cheat them out of their money.

Of course, she assures me that she only does this to the ones who deserve it - a fool is easily parted from his money, they say, and Theresa is not one to suffer fools.

Take this one for example; fine black 3-piece suit with a fine silk vest, gold pocketwatch, stiff top-hat, and one of those twirled mustaches that just begs to be covered in tomato sauce and called spaghetti. He was even a lean fellow, not your typical rich man. We'd been watching him all evening from the bar, playing high roller and attracting all the women, ladies and whores alike, to watch his game. He flaunted this fact at his opponents, and then proceeded to win all their money. Mr. High Roller was the kind of man I hated; a bully type, arrogant, simply begging to be done the service of being taken down a notch. With an exchanged glance, Theresa and I were ready to kindly comply - and gain some badly needed funds.

The game had just broken up; disgruntled losers gave us doubtful looks as we strode boldly to the table. To them, a young man (me) and an aging woman (Theresa) didn't pose much threat.

A lot they knew.

We sat down coolly, Theresa putting on the smile that, even on a forty-plus-years woman, could make men melt. She asked for us to be dealt in while I sized up the man at a closer range. The smirk on his face told me that he expected us to be little more than a nibble's worth of trouble, and I could almost visibly see his guard drop.

Theresa saw it too, and grinned more broadly. I'd seen that grin before. The man was a lamb for the slaughter.

I knew the drill; start out easy, loose some money, then play him up little by little until the surprise of shoveling out $100 showed. At that point, Theresa usually had some ridiculous hand that would net us twice what we lost, smile sweetly, and then get up to leave. This time seemed no exception.

The first $10 we bet, we graciously lost. In the early stages, I won one hand, Theresa won three, and our opponent gained the rest. His spectators giggled, and his smug smile only grew.

"What are the two of you playing poker together for?" he finally asked under the facade of casual small talk.

I didn't feel as though his attempt at degrading us needed any help, so my mouth stayed closed, and my eyes stayed with my cards. Touchstone, however, clearly wanted to reply.

"Makin' money is all. Only, we aren't so good at that lately, eh, Handsome?" she smiled at me.

There were indeed times when I thought that Theresa was either crazy or didn't care about a damn thing. It was a favorite pastime of hers to try to embarrass me in various ways, being the 'damn young upstart eating my bread.' There were various other things that only my threatening to leave would keep her from doing; like, say, running around naked. At the time she'd said it, she laughed, but we both knew that, given the chance, she probably would. That was just the kind of touched she was. As it were, I'd had to learn how to cope with her awkward little musings:

I grunted something unintelligible, and fished out what I wanted replaced from the dealer.

Our high-roller looked a little shocked, and even mortified at the wink Theresa gave him. I might've laughed, but the game didn't call for it.

I'd begun to notice that our opponent was laying down cards that shouldn't have been in his hand. Plus, instead of us winning more, as it was supposed to go, we were losing more. There was only one explanation; the high-roller was cheating. Anger flared in my gut, and a frown creased my face before I could stop it. It seemed that this would be the one game we'd loose, and I didn't think my ego would like that. My gaze caught Theresa's for a moment with one discrepancy; she was smiling. That's it, I thought, she's finally lost it. I was about to throw down my cards in disgust when a gentle hand came down on my shoulder.

"Easy, Kid," she muttered softly. I watched in awe first as she upped the anti - which our man happily met - and then laid down a hand I though next to impossible at the time.

Somehow, when Theresa cheated, it didn't bother me half as much.

Our opponent's smug face finally took a downfall, his eyes taking in the hand with disbelief. He furiously looked between his and Touchstone's sets of cards, worried sweat beading on his brow. At last, the fool gave in.

"Fold," he professed brokenly, running a hand through his greasy hair.

"Pardon?" Theresa asked, savoring the moment.

"I'm done for the evening. A good night...ah...nevermind."

Shaking his head, he made his way through his dwindled fans while my teacher gleefully gathered the spoils to her chest in fistfuls.

"I knew fools were good for something," she chuckled. I ignored the comment, preoccupied.

I couldn't help but follow the man's trail with my gaze; something about him made me uneasy. Bad gut feelings, you might say, and my gut learned from the best. As it were, it came as no surprise to me to see him sidle up to an evening lady, a shy and somewhat buxom blonde.

"On the rebound already," I muttered darkly, more to myself than Touchstone.

"Mm?" was my companion's concerned retort. "Kid, he's not doing any harm. If that girl wants to sell herself, then I say let her. If that man wants to indulge in his urges, I say let him. Leave it be."

I was admittedly reluctant to do so, but as always, Touchstone's clear-headed thinking reigned me in.

"Now, come on," she continued, nudging my shoulder with her elbow as she stood, "Let's hit the saddlebags."

The high-roller and his whore headed out before we did, and as he headed left just before we did, I was beginning to be slightly concerned that we were headed in the same direction. I wanted nothing more to do with him, but it seemed that fate was once again going to calmly squash what would have made me happy.

With the dishonest feeling that I was tailing someone, we strode down the dusty street, nonchalantly stepped through piles of broken glass from bar fights, around drunkards, and skirting lumps of manure. When I was much younger, there were dead bodies to avoid too, from gunfights, but those were fewer nowadays.

As our hotel came up, I saw our victim and the blonde turn into the building. I frowning deeply, and we too entered. The pair took the stairs ahead of us, and it seemed as if the man didn't know we were there; all the better, for what it would have looked like to him, Theresa and I sharing a room. The one thing to say about her strangeness was that it saved us money. Besides, I considered her a mother. It had long since stopped being strange to me, not to say I wasn't self-conscious about it.

To further my discomfiture, the man's room turned out to be right next to ours. He finally had to turn in such a way that he could see us, and Theresa flashed him a coy grin and another wink. I looked away entirely, pretending not to notice her actions.

The man looked very uncomfortable, but brightened considerably when the doxy on his arm snuggled closer suggestively. Now, I wasn't sure of the...virility of the man, but I was sure that there was going to be a period during which I would find no sleep.

"We'd have been better off outside of town." I mused sourly as I thought.

Theresa shrugged, still grinning, and let us into the room without comment.

We were singularly unlucky with our neighbor, and I unlucky with my roommate. The man may have looked the fool, but it didn't seem as if he performed like one. I'd been lying down, about to rip my ears off while my foster mother chuckled at the antics that seemingly amused her. I threw a shirt at her at some point, begging her to be quiet. She did so, for a time, and I began to wish she hadn't; the chuckling had been a somewhat effective distraction.

Only after the man and his guest had fallen asleep did either of us get any. I found myself lying awake long afterwards, pitying the girl. She'd been pretty, I will admit, and had I not minded one-night stands, I was even willing to think that it might have been me sharing her bed (yes, despite my priest-like qualities, I am able to bring myself to think about women.) I new Theresa certainly wouldn't be bothered; even she occasionally didn't come back at night. If anything, I found her rare promiscuity bothered me. I came to think of myself partly as her caregiver, and her being with a man made me uncomfortable. I suppose it was because I didn't think them worthy. I'd never met a man as smart as her, nor as skilled with a gun. But then, she had needs, like every other human being, and she'd never had anything close to a husband, a fact that sometimes made me pity her.

---

Later, it was a loud bang that woke me up. In my still-groggy state, I had no wish to know what it was, sure that it was unpleasant and hoping it was no immediate danger to Theresa or I. I simply rolled over and hoped it would go away.

Rolling over, however, showed me that my foster mother had no such thoughts. She was sitting up from her cot, one revolver cocked in her hand. I instantly became alert; anything she found interesting was my business to pay attention to. With a nervous hand, I reached over to my pile of clothing, pulling away my vest and one of my own two guns. I was already in my pants, a trait Theresa seemingly had no desire to take on herself, but it no longer really noticed the fact she was bare-legged; at least, not until there was someone else around to notice.

The bang had come from the next room over - our victim's room - and there gradually sounded more of them, though lighter in volume. Accompanying these bangs were angry yells and whimpering interspersed with quiet shrieks. This wasn't lovemaking; this was abuse.

"Bastard," I heard Theresa mutter angrily, throwing aside her quilt. "He's more than a pitiable fool!"

I quickly did the same, only pausing to shove my feet into boots before following her out of the room, intent on making sure she didn't kill anyone. Theresa didn't often get angry. Determined, maybe, or annoyed, but not angry. When she was angry, she tended to be a little less than sane. Well, a little less than she usually was, anyway.

I watched, stunned, as I got into the hall with time enough to see her viscously kick in the door, therefore alerting everyone in the building that there was something more serious going on. I saw heads poking out of doors and, becoming self-conscious, fastened one button of my vest, waving them gingerly away from the growing scene, an action none of them heeded. I gave up and following Theresa into the room.

I saw my tutor, half-naked but formidable, staring down our high-roller. In her long nightshirt, curly dirty-blonde hair falling in wisps about her shoulders, one strand flickering in her angered breathing, and one revolver pointed straight at the man, Theresa made a person anyone would be crazy to fight. I found myself satisfied at the fear in his eyes.

My gaze wandered, looking for the blonde I'd seen him with. She was there, in the corner, shaking all over - not naked but wrapped in a sheet, else I would have found myself too distracted - with an ugly bruise growing on her cheek.

"Theresa," I called darkly, never leaving sight of the girl.

I knew she glanced our way, than in a flash back to the man, who I now realized was poised with an object in hand, ready to throw it, joining other various objects on the floor at the feet of the prostitute.

"You beat this girl," Theresa growled.

I was shocked; I'd never seen her this angry. The girl was all right, so she had license to be annoyed, but this angry? It seemed...personal. An intriguing thought to me, who had no idea why.

"Er..." said the man courageously in his defense.

"Shut up and listen," she snapped, trembling with rage. "Kid's gonna take her to the doctor. You're going to sit down on the bed and not move, or you'll find yourself with one less finger every time you do. When they come back, you'll pay her double her fee, and her medical bill. Got it?"

Her tone left no room for argument. Only, the man didn't seem know that.

"That's an outrageous amount-"

The revolver discharged loudly, and everyone in the vicinity - except me, of course - jumped, and the man yelled, sure he was missing a digit; I knew better, even with Theresa so angry.

Dust fell from the ceiling, where she'd aimed. Her gun fell back to the man's quivering form. "That was a warning," was all she said.

The man skipped to sit down upon the bed, eyes locked on the ceiling. Theresa smirked, gun still trained on him, and went to take a seat in a chair.

"Kid," she intoned.

"Yeah." I replied, moving towards the blonde.

She looked at me with fear, and I remembered the gun in my hand. I smiled amiably, cracking open the gun and showing her there were no rounds loaded. "I didn't need to use it, just look scary," I murmured.

A ghost of a smile swept her frightened face, and she took the hand I held out to her. I grabbed a robe for her to wear, and escorted her gently out into the hall, my presumably loaded gun warning off questions.

We met the sheriff and his deputy on the way down to the first floor. The girl chattered out what happened and even what Theresa was making him pay her. I showing them my gun was empty, that my companion was guarding the man, and that they were welcome to take him into custody - so long as Theresa knew they were going to uphold her judicious decision. They let us go, and we continued on out through the building.

"I'm Annabell." she said at length, drawing my distracted thoughts from the warmth of her next to me.

I got the feeling she was trolling for another customer. She was another one that recovered quickly.

"Kid," I replied simply.

Annabell arched a delicate eyebrow which, on her thin-nosed face, made her look intelligent. "What kind of a name is that?"

I shrugged, resisting the urge to fiddle with the buttons on my vest. "Mine. Theresa gave it to me."

Annabell looked confused. "Who, the old woman? She's not...with you?"

I flinched at the world 'old' on my foster mother's behalf. "Um, no. She adopted me when I was eight."

She huffed a sigh of relief, strangely raising my hopes of...I wasn't sure what, and continued. "I think I've heard of you guys before."

I instinctively stiffened, an action that did not go unnoticed.

"Why so nervous?" she giggled. "Are you really outlaws?"

I just know my face went red. "No. Of course not."

She snorted good-naturedly. "Yeah, I believe that."

She was getting...annoying. "It doesn't matter if you believe it. It's true," I growled.

Annabell stayed silent, but her smile was still in place as she latched possessively on my arm. I began counting the horses along the street.

It wasn't that I didn't like her attention, I just had better things to do - like go back to sleep once this was over - which would be made infinitely harder if I couldn't stop thinking about her. Damn womanly curves - I mean...wiles.

"The doctor's here," she said as we drew close to a well-built wooden building.

I noted it with relief, taking the opportunity to gently detach her from my arm. She hung on like a leech, grinning wider at my efforts growing steadily more forceful.

"Please let go," I asked, slightly panicky.

"When I feel like it," she answered off-handedly, patting my scrawny bicep.

I wished the revolver were loaded.