<div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/d/de/Nash_bilton.png)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Sheriff Nash Bilton<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Law Dogs (5) Sheriff<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 11th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Sheriff's Office/Gomorra Jail<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Ginny, Open<br/><hr/>Nash Bilton was by no means the finest poker player in Gomorra - though it was more his love for whiskey that dulled his skills than it was any lack of sense for the game.  Sober, he was as dangerous as any man at the tables, but whiskey blunted his patience for cards, made him impatient and overeager.<br/><br/>The soiled doves had complained that whiskey had the same effect on him in other capacities, but never to his face.  He was also used to a certain degree of fear that his reputation and his unpleasant demeanor and tendency to idly play with his six shooter engendered in others at the table.  There were not many who would second guess Bilton if he accused a man of being a card cheat because of a string of losses, and few still who would draw against the veteran Law Dog, which meant he was as likely to win on sheer cussedness as he was on skill.  But he’d enjoyed playing cards with Ginny - she was a sight prettier than most of the miners, and even if he was the type to accuse an unarmed woman of being a card cheat, her last name protected her even in the thickest haze of a good drunk.<br/><br/>Not to mention she told some wickedly dirty jokes when she was deep in her cups.  No - he was actually secretly a little fond of her, particularly when she turned that wicked tongue on the others at the table with the two of them.  The Sheriff didn’t laugh often, but six hours into a card game with Ginny Whateley and three bottles of whiskey gone between them, and he laughed often and hard, often to the point he forgot all about the money he was losing.  But he enjoyed the game in a different way sober, and the prospect of running his hands all over her pale skin when he was sober enough to remember it was… delightful enough.<br/><br/>“Why, Ginny Whateley, that hurts.  That hurts my feelings, you calling me a stranger.”  He grinned as she accused them of being trustworthy, and came around his desk.  “As much money as I’ve lost to you, I’d expect us to be at least familiar.  I may not know you quite as biblically as I’d care to, but I certainly wouldn’t call you a stranger.”  He laughed and followed the bustle of her skirt, sweeping her by a cell full of keenly interested drunks and another with a blood-stained Dolores Whateley.  The cells were separated by stone walls, the only bars on the outside, and he opened the cell door to admit her.<br/><br/>“Just right in there,” he offered, leaving the door ajar behind him.  “And take the hat off, if you don’t mind.”  They were one shriek from marring his reputation - further - and he made a show of rolling up his sleeves.  But there was no belt pressed between her teeth, no hand clapped over her mouth.  He ran his hand up into the back of her hair, sliding fingers over her scalp, then dropping them down her neck and running down her back.  “Just set your hands on the wall there,” he offered, his voice pitched a tone quieter than it had been in the front of the Sheriff’s office.  He paused as he got to the dress, and realized the dust on his hands was going to mar the dress - mar it with the distinctive stains of pawing at her, so he looked over the tight fitting corset.  There was really only one place she might have hidden something, there.  The back and hips and ribbing were drawn too tight for her to have concealed anything, which left something squeezed between her breasts or just beneath them - and there was no way she’d dare loosen the laces inside the cell and try to draw it out.  That would mean nearly three layers would have to come undone, and getting redressed in the cell not twenty feet from Townsend.  No - he’d bet all in she wouldn’t have dared smuggle something there.<br/><br/>So he dropped down to a knee, one of them popping and cracking and making him wince when he moved down behind her and lifted the hem of her dress to draw it up - he didn’t intend to flash the interior of the cell with her fanny, but his hands started to travel up her calves.  “Need you to step out of these boots, after.”  His hands continued to slide up her legs, travelling over the inches of skin, ever higher, and there was a smile hidden on his face when he felt a tremble of muscle.<br/><br/>It was his thumb that brushed her knife - and he zeroed in on it, fingers circling it without saying anything aloud.  It didn’t take long to distinguish what it was - but he paid it no more mind after he knew what it was.  A woman in Gomorra who didn’t carry some means of protecting her virtue didn’t think highly of her virtue.  The worst she could do with it was stab her own Aunt - and that would, in his mind, solve more problems than it created.<br/><br/>“Well, you are definitely smuggling something … explosive in here, Miss Whateley.  But I’m afraid its permitted by law.”  The rough, calloused hands slid a little higher, just to the hem of her underthings, and then dropped back down.  “Guess I won’t need to nevermind about them boots.”<br/><br/>He dropped his hands, letting them slide free from the back of her dress, and straightened behind her.  “You’re free to go.  I’ll unlock your Aunt’s cell for you.”  He smiled toothily, well aware the next time he had a pale skinned whore bent over the edge of a bed, he’d make damn sure she did her very best Georgian accent.