<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Nathan Hunter<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 4th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>An evening stroll<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Margeurite Tuerny, Open<br/><hr/><br/><strong>“Thank you for the excellent company,”</strong>said Hunter, his tone light and genuinely grateful.  His own spirits had been dampened – and incensed – by the altercation with Bilton, no matter how private.  The two men had nearly come to blows, and the last few years of his service to Gomorra had been blithely discarded.  He’d never cared for Bilton – but even during the dinner he’d refused t say a poor word about his fellow lawman.  Or at least, his former fellow lawman.<br/>Hunter gave a light smile at the mention of Warwick’s suggestion.<strong>”Sweetrock’s the only folk that employ lawyers for civil matters,”</strong>he agreed.<strong>”Some of the other mine owners, on occasion,</strong>”   He cocked his head, considering.<strong>”Though I imagine I won’t be much needed, as a prosecutor.”</strong>Bilton would much prefer to be judge, jury, and executioner, and so long as he was a loyal lap dog, he imagined Findley and the Mayor would be doing everything in their power to clear the way for him to be exactly that.   The jail cells might remain full of drunks, but he very much doubted Biltion would feel the need to gather evidence to present to a prosecutor, to in turn present before a court.  That was far more… work than he cared for, time he could be spending in his cups or in the honeypot of one of the soiled doves at the Perch.  He shook off the direction his mind wandered.<strong>”But I’m happy to offer advice, all the same.”</strong><br/><br/>He put a hand over hers, as he escorted her on his arm, looking the very soul of propriety.  His manners would have been par for the course in Baltimore, New York, or Boston, but in the West they were a rarity.  Dusty, perhaps, and broken in a bit, but everything that survived in the West seemed to be a little of both.<br/><br/>He gave a light blush as she admitted she would like to do it again soon.<strong>”I’d enjoy that,”</strong>he agreed, his voice soft.  He winced a little, as he made a realization.<strong>”I can’t seem to recall all my finer points of etiquette about dating,”</strong>he admitted.<strong>”I seem to recall marrying the first woman I ever invited to a dance.  I… is it improper to ask upon you again?  Or am I expected to wait a time to – “</strong>He winced, realizing he foolishness.<strong><em>”Perdition,”</em></strong>he swore, under his breath, just low enough he likely didn’t intend her to overhear his curse.<strong>”Margeurite, would you care to accompany me to the theater tomorrow?  I’ve heard our very own Gamorran players are attempting an opera.” </strong>He gave a small smile.<strong>”A comedy.”</strong><br/><br/>He looked her over, his dead wife’s favorite dress looking twice as becoming on her as it ever had on his buried spouse.  It was a terribly thing to think – but he’d often wondered if he ever would have courted his bygone missus if he’d known how it was to turn out – or even how much he would find of himself in the West.  His own thoughts, too, were of the forthcoming goodbye to be had that evening.  He desired her deeply, he knew.  He’d already spent four nights dreaming of her.  But there was more to marriage than mere lust, and part of him hesitated, worried that the prospect of a mine and wealth would complicate things.  He had no interest in her birthright – not in taking it from her, or taking advantage of it, or operating it on her behalf.  His family had wealth; perhaps not so much as Margeurite’s own, but an abundance of old and stable investments that would serve for generations.<br/><br/>There was propriety to consider – what she might think if he asked her up for a goodnight kiss, as it was most certainly inappropriate in the street.  How little he trusted himself to behave a gentleman if he followed her up to her room, or how the taste of her lips lingered on his mind as a fantasy.  He could just imagine leaning in to taste them once again, returning the gaze she sent his way, when –<br/><br/>The screaming was terrible.  It dashed thoughts of romance and turned his veins to ice.  But there was a familiar cool to that sensation, to the shock of fear and horror.  It was something that had grown familiar as a senior deputy.<br/><br/><em>"What was that?"</em><br/><br/><strong>”Trouble,”</strong>said Nathan, his voice soft.  The Peacemaker was already in his hand, a lightning draw.   He didn’t know what kind, just yet, but he knew what the sound foretold, and knew any thoughts of a romantic conclusion to their date would be at an end.  He mourned the passing of romantic fancy for only a heartbeat.<strong>”I – We?  No you should get back to the Golden – “</strong><br/><br/>She was already shuffling off, towards the sound of danger, and for a moment Nathan Hunter blinked and stared, stupefied.  He tried to envision his departed wife doing anything more than trying to breath and not feint away at the merest wisp of danger, and here this woman – this remarkable woman – might well arrive at the scene of it before him.<br/><br/>He heel-toed after her, setting a quick pace to catch up with her and lead the way, gun in hand, thumb hovering on the hammer and ready to cock it back with a moment’s notice.<br/><br/>