Page 102 of The Widow and the Wanted

She reaches into the satin purse at her hip, the same shade as her dress, and rustles about inside. Then she pauses, thinks a moment, and says, “Well. I reckon you’re friends of the house now. No charge. Follow me.”

Pearl leads us out and down, past the dark wood, heavy perfume, and lamps turned low into steam and copper. Down here is hotter, plainer. Damp hangs in the air under the ceiling beams. The floor is scrubbed pine gone dark with wet. Copper tubs sit in little rooms with a dainty curtain and stacks of towels. It damn sure ain’t Paris. Ain’t even Wichita, but it’s the finest thing I’ve seen out in these parts.

A woman sits at the end of the hall in a clean white slip. Her nose is in a book and she leans sleepily against a wall. Pearl waves an arm at her as she brings us into a room with two tubs set side by side. The woman jerks up and hides her book on the chair before rushing over to pour steaming hot water into each tub. I watch her womanly shape in thin cotton underclothes, smell the cleanliness in the air, the whiskey as Pearl pours two glasses, and I can damn near purr. Before I can crack a smile, a low rumble sounds from Okee’s chest, and he nods.

“Look at this glory,” he mutters. “I’ve been dreaming of hot water for miles.”

“The man upstairs might remember you yet,” I answer, expecting it to earn a smile. Hell, half a crack of one. A nod. At least a look in my direction, but I get nothing.

Pearl fusses around, stopping in front of a folding screen leaned up in the corner, roughly twice her size. She sets her fists on her hips and hums at it, before hugging around it and pulling it with a screech.

“Whoa,” I say, Okee and I both stalking toward her at once to catch her.

Her cheeks flush. “Privacy,” she says with a grunt, dragging it across the boards another few feet before stopping again.

“Please,” Okee says, stopping her.

“Ain’t a thing either of us got that the other one ain’t seen,” I say.

That’s enough to earn a small, nervous laugh from Pearl as he sweeps up the partition and sets it back in the corner. “Well then,” she says, dusting her hands on her dress. “Girls’ll be in directly for your shoulders.”

The door shuts behind her. For a second it is just me and him and the water dripping off the copper lip. Okee strips first, starting at his collar and working down. His shirt comes loose from his shoulders, damp where the road sweat set in it. His braces hang. His belt drops heavy. I ought to be used to the sight. Lord knows I have seen him in every state a man can get into and then some.

But there is something about the clean, hot room, the steam rolling over his skin, the low lamp throwing him half gold and half shadow, that makes me feel my own hide tighten over me. I strip too, though less graceful. My shirt sticks. My boots fight me. Bloody linen clings to my skin, and hairs yanking I ain’t known I had where Lula’s handiwork covered my wound. Reckon I’d better not get it wet, so I discard it on the floor. By the time I step into the tub, I am near ready to cuss.

Then the water takes hold of me.

Sweet Jesus.

Okee lowers himself into the tub with a slow sigh. He shuts his eyes and leans his head back against the rim, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he reaches for the whiskey. He hands mine across. His fingers brush mine, slick with the damp off the glass.

A knock sounds, then the door opens without waiting.

Two women come in carrying little bowls and cloths. One is the girl from the hall, dark-haired, quiet. The other is fair and broad in the hips, with sleeves rolled.

“Evening, gentlemen,” the fair one says.

“Such as it is,” Okee answers.

They move behind us and warm oil slicks over my shoulders. Fingers press into the knots there, and I near sink clean under.

There is a stretch of quiet then, broken only by the soft slap of water and the little catch in my breath each time the girl behind me finds another hard place in my back and kneads at it. I drink whiskey and try not to think too hard about Okee bare-chested beside me with his hair pulled back.

So hard I think on nothing else. My flesh starts to swell under the heat, every heartbeat pulsing on the surface.

Then he says, “You put on quite a performance last night.”

The woman’s hands don’t falter, but my lungs do.

I look down into my drink. “I wondered how long before you said something.”

My skin feels too tight. Too hot. I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling beams shining with damp. “I don’t know what come over me, Okee. It was out of my hands. It was animal. No sense in it.”

The girl behind me digs her thumbs in and I grunt.

“Beg pardon,” she says.

“You keep right on,” I tell her, and then to him, “I mean it. I don’t know what devil got loose in us when it started.”