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You'd only been working at the Strawberry Welcome Center for a couple of months. Being a bath girl meant that you saw lots of folks coming through--mostly men, but a few women as well. The women, you didn't mind much. Most rarely asked for an extra hand in the bath, and all you needed to do for them was keep the water hot and make sure the soap and towels were stocked.
Men were more frequent clients, though. Some were just as easy customers, only asking for hot water, soap, and solitude while they cleaned the grime of the road off their weary bodies before settling down for the night. Others liked some help scrubbing down, and as awkward as it sometimes was, they were mostly polite. You figured that some of these men didn't often get close to a woman and so it was a kindness to flirt a little, rub their shoulders and help them relax. And the pay and appreciation was decent enough, and the owner enforced the rule that they weren’t allowed to get handsy with you. The few who tried to get a little too friendly, well, you could usually gently dissuade them. And if push came to shove, it wasn't so hard to defend yourself when they were naked, slippery and unarmed, and you had a very sharp knife tucked into your boot. You hadn't had to use it yet, but there was always a possibility.
Occasionally, though, you got a client who caught your attention as much, or more, than you did theirs. So it was a pleasant surprise late one evening to be downstairs folding linens when the stranger came through the door.
His dark skin was a rarity in Strawberry even among travelers, and instantly made him stand out to you. He was a big man--not overly tall, but sturdy and strong, like he’d earned it through a lifetime of hard work. He had a handsome face as well, serious but not unfriendly. A web of thin scars ran from the right side of his jaw, over his cheek and up toward his hairline. They were faded in some places and barely visible in the lamplight, but more obvious at his jawline and where they cut a line through his eyebrow. Somehow they managed to add interest to his face rather than detract from his looks. His clothes were a little shabby and caked with the dust that came with days of constant travel, and his long black hair was pulled back loosely at the nape of his neck. He spoke in a low, quiet voice to the clerk, asking for a bath and a room for the night.
“Yes, sir, we can get that set up for you right away,” the clerk responded. “Room’s upstairs and to the left. Miss, could you please get some water heated for the gentleman?”
“Of course,” you responded, gathering the towels and heading towards the stairs. “It’ll just be a few minutes, sir.”
“Thank you,” the stranger responded in that same rich but soft voice, nodding as you passed by. To the clerk, he said, “I’ll get my horse settled and be back in shortly.”
Upstairs, you checked the water that was on the boiler and began drawing the bath for him, adding a bit of scented, foaming soap for a layer of bubbles at the top and arranging bar soap and a stack of freshly washed towels nearby. You checked the fire as well, making sure it was stoked to drive the nighttime chill out of the room. It was nearly ten at night, and your shift would usually be ending shortly, but you were content to wait until the stranger had finished his bath before you called it a night. It would not do to leave a customer to his own devices, after all.
And maybe, your inner romantic whispered, he’ll need a little help.
You were in the hall putting away the last of the folded towels and supplies when you heard footsteps on the stairs, signalling that the stranger had returned. You sat near the window and listened as he moved around in the next room. You’d gotten pretty good at guessing by sound what a guest was doing, and when would be the appropriate time to offer assistance. The walls were thin enough that you could hear the man undressing, noticing tiny hisses and gasps of breath after some of his movements. You felt bad for him--it sounded like he was hurting, whether from long hours on horseback or an injury of some kind, you didn’t know for sure. After several minutes you heard the sloshing of water and a suppressed groan that you were sure was him sinking into the warm tub. If the thought made your heart beat a little bit quicker, you tried to ignore it.
You gave him a few minutes to get comfortable and relax before knocking softly at the door separating you.
“Would you like a little help in here?” you asked as sweetly as you could. Usually you didn’t hope the man would say yes, but you wouldn’t mind getting another look at the attractive stranger this time.
“Uh, I… yes, please,” the man responded, sounding surprisingly uncertain and even a bit resigned, rather than the eagerness of your usual clients.
You opened the door and slipped into the room with your typical smile, one you hoped was gentle and welcoming. The man was blushing, seeming to avoid your eyes. Not often that the men are the shy ones, you thought as you came to sit on the stool next to the tub.
“Everything all right, hon?” you asked, trying to feel out the reason for his apprehension.
“Yes. I...Well, I usually wouldn’t ask for-- but--” he stumbled over his words, scowling at himself, “My horse threw me yesterday and…” he gestured to his side.
You took a closer look at him in the dim light and were surprised to see patches of dark purple bruising all down his right side, from shoulder to ribs, disappearing beneath the water and curving around behind his back.
“Oh you poor thing,” you murmured, craning your head around to see the damage. “You must be pretty sore.”
He sighed and nodded. “I could barely move this morning, and spent all day riding. I'm just hoping a hot soak before bed will do me some good.”
“I’m surprised you could even undress yourself,” you said before you could think better of it. The handsome stranger’s eyes bulged momentarily, and then the corners of his lips quirked up as your face turned hot and you stuttered, “I-I mean…I’m s-sorry...”
“It’s fine,” he said, waving off your embarrassment with a polite laugh. “But I could really use some help getting clean.”
“Of course,” you said, nodding and busying yourself with wetting a washcloth and soaping it up. “You just relax, sir, and let me take care of you, all right?”
“Call me Charles,” he murmured and leaned back against the high wall of the tub, letting you get to work.
You worked as gently as you could manage, starting with his neck and back and letting the warm water run down them as you lathered the soap over his skin. It only took a few minutes before he was humming in pleasure, his shoulders loosening and dropping as you continued over his arms, doing your best to massage his biceps and forearms until they lost their tension, draping bonelessly along the edges of the tub. As you worked, you began to notice that he bore scars not only on his face, but seemingly everywhere else as well. Some of them were long and thin, curving over the muscles of his arms every which way. One old but ragged-looking one carved across his left pectoral as if it had been ripped into his skin rather than cut. Others, shorter but just as thick, marked his ribcage. When he leaned forward so you could wash his back, you saw more long lines in various stages of fading, and even a round gouge of scar tissue on the back of one arm that looked distinctly like a bullet wound.
“Looks like you’ve had a rough life, Charles” you said, breaking the quiet.
“Hm?”
“So many scars.”
“Oh. I guess I have, yes,” he responded. You waited a few moments for him to say more, but he remained quiet.
“Not much of a talker, are you?” you asked with a laugh. To your relief, he responded with a half-smile and a shake of his head.
“Not really, sorry.”
“It’s fine,” you said. “Kind of peaceful, just listening to the fire.”
He nodded, and you were happy to take the hint. You washed down his firm chest and softer belly as far as was appropriate, taking care to be gentle over the bruises, before moving down the side of the tub and reaching in to lift one of his legs up to the edge. He complied easily, sliding down a bit in the water so you could get a good angle. You tried to do the same as you had with his arms, massaging from the foot all the way up to the upper thigh, feeling the tension in his thick, corded muscles fade and the limb grow lax.
“You’re very good at that,” he murmured after several minutes of silence, half-lidded eyes focused on your hands.
“I'm glad you’re enjoying it,” you said with a smile, lowering his leg back into the warm water before lifting the other one.
After finishing with his legs, you moved back to the head of the tub and slid a hand behind his back, gently urging him forward so you could massage his shoulders again. You’d never met a man who didn’t love this part, and Charles was no different, bowing his head forward and groaning softly as your hands glided over his slick, wet skin, soothing all of the tension out of him.
His scars fascinated you. Your thumb seemed drawn to a long-healed gash over his right shoulder blade, and you stroked the ridge of raised tissue curiously, just once.
“Wolf got me,” the man said, in a voice that sounded like he was on the verge of falling asleep. “Big one, near Cotorra Springs. You can see the other three claw marks just below it if you look close.”
You paused with your hands resting atop his shoulders, not sure whether to take that as an invitation, or a subtle hint to stop. He seemed to notice your hesitance and murmured, “It’s fine, go ahead.”
Leaning forward, you ran your fingers carefully down his shoulder blade, feeling for the scars he said were there. You found them easily by touch, though they faded to little more than thin lines, just barely lighter than his normal skin tone.
“How did you get away?” you asked, fascinated and a little frightened.
“My horse, Taima. She charged at it, knocked it off me. Dazed it, I guess, because I had enough time to swing back up into the saddle and run. I hear it’s still up there somewhere, terrorizing hunters.” He laughed a little at the last, and you realized that you loved his laugh--it was warm and rich like sunshine on velvet.
"Is that the same horse that bucked you yesterday?"
"Mm-hmm," he hummed. "I don't blame her though. I was pushing her too fast, didn't see the nest of rattlers until it was too late to stop. I'm lucky she threw me to the other side. And that neither of us got bitten."
You shivered in spite of yourself. "Gosh, I hate rattlesnakes. I found one just yesterday, sunning itself right next to my runner beans!"
To your surprise, he shrugged. "They're just trying to live. Just like the rest of us."
"Well, that's fine, so long as they stay out of my garden," you said with a laugh. Charles laughed along with you, and you both fell quiet again for a moment.
"Would you like me to wash your hair?" you asked. He'd tied it up into a sort of loose bun at the crown of his head, but you could see that it was dusty and due for a good wash. "I've got some fancy imported olive oil soap. Much nicer for hair than the regular kind."
He didn't answer immediately, looking thoughtfully into the sudsy water. His pause was long enough that you were beginning to wonder if you somehow offended him. But finally his warm brown eyes met yours and to your relief, he gave you a nod. "Sure. That's...very kind of you."
"Of course," you said, trying to regain your 'sweet bath girl' persona. You stood up and went to the cabinet at the back of the room to find the fancier soap and a tin cup for rinsing. There was a soft splashing sound behind you, and when you turned back around you saw that Charles had untied his hair, letting it fall into a thick, messy curtain over his shoulders. You plucked a wide-toothed wooden comb from the cabinet as well before returning to his side.
"I'm going to comb it out first," you said as you sat down. "Don't want it to tangle while I'm washing it."
"Sure," he said with a nod, turning so his back was angled more toward you. You took the wooden comb in hand and began running it through his hair, untangling it and shedding some of the road dust and bits of grass and leaves--from the fall, you supposed, or from sleeping on the ground. His hair was thick and wavy, curling at the ends and around his face where there was less weight to it. Untied, it was longer than you’d originally thought. It draped over the edge of the tub, and you imagined it would be nearly to his waist if he stood up
When you were done combing, you guided him to sit normally in the tub and tilt his head back, cupping a hand over his forehead to protect his eyes while pouring some warm water from a basin over his hair with a cup.
“You do this often?” he asked, eyes closed as you poured another cup of water into his hair.
“Sometimes, with customers,” you said with a smile as you set the cup down and picked up the bar of green-yellow, lemony-scented soap, “but I probably do it more for my little brothers and sisters than anyone else. The youngest is four, and he hates it when mama washes his hair, but he’ll let me do it.”
“I don’t think I’ve had anyone wash my hair for me since I was a little boy,” Charles said. He sounded wistful, almost sad.
“Did you have long hair back then, too?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever cut it?”
“Um. Once, when I was thirteen.” He shifted a bit, like the question was making him uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry,” you said, working the soap into his scalp and hair. He shook his head, muttering, “It’s fine,” but fell quiet again.
You turned your attention fully to his hair. There was a lot of it, and working the soap into it took time.
“When I was seven,” you began, hoping to distract him from whatever had sunk him back into silence, “I cut my hair with mama’s sewing shears. I’d been playing in the field behind our house and got a bunch of cockleburs tangled in it. I tried to pull them out, but it hurt, so instead I decided I was going to cut them out.”
Charles smirked, eyes still closed. “How did that go?”
“Badly,” you responded with a laugh. “My poor mama, she cried when she saw me sitting there on the floor, half my long hair in a pile on my lap. Papa tanned my hide that night, and mama tried to fix my hair and even it out, but for months the neighbor girls made fun of me and kept asking if I was a boy.”
"Children can be cruel," he said, tilting his head back and cracking his eyes open to squint up at you, "But your hair is lovely now."
You paused in your motions for just a moment. His eyes were still on you, expression unreadable, but somehow the compliment sent butterflies through your tummy and a rush of warmth to your cheeks.
"Aren't you a charmer?" you asked, ducking your head away to try and hide your blush.
"Well, it's the truth," he said with a shrug, eyes closing again. “You’re a beautiful woman.”
You laughed softly, still running your fingers through his hair. "I'm nothing special, hon, but it's sweet of you to say. You ain't so bad yourself."
That pulled a surprised chuckle from him. "Even with all these scars?"
"Sure. Just means you've got stories to tell." You picked up the cup again to start rinsing the soap out of his hair.
"I'm not much of a storyteller," he said.
"Well, you've been keeping me entertained this past while, anyway." You tilted his head back a little further and rinsed his hair again. "And here I'm supposed to be the one taking care of you!"
That brought a real grin to his face, rounding his cheeks and making him look years younger. It was short-lived, but it made your heart skip a beat just to see him smile like that.
“There,” you finally said, once the soap was gone from his hair and it lay plastered in loose black tendrils against his skin. “How's that feel?”
"Best I've felt in months,” he said, leaning back against the tub with his eyes half-closed. “Could fall asleep right here.”
“I think the water might get cold after a while,” you said, grinning down at him. He seemed so… peaceful. You always liked making your customers feel good, but his relaxed, barely-there smile was almost payment in itself. "Now, is there anything else you'd like? A drink?" Your heart thudded in your chest for a moment--usually you were careful not to leave openings like that for men to ask for more than you were willing to give. Here it comes, you thought-- and for the first time, you weren't completely sure what your answer would be.
But Charles shook his head. "Nothing I need now but a good night's rest. Thank you for your help."
"Any time, honey," you said, chiding yourself for even considering being disappointed by his answer. Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned down and pressed a brief kiss to his temple. "You take care now, Charles. Good night."
The expression on his face when you pulled back was a mix of surprise, confusion, and delight. You were halfway out the door before you heard him murmur, "Good night..." behind you.
Back in the supply room downstairs, you sighed to yourself with a smile. You'd stick around until he was out of the room, drain the tub, clean up, and head home for the night. You wondered if you'd see the man again, or if he would recognize you if you did. You were just a bath girl, after all. A man who traveled like him must have seen a hundred other girls like you.
But maybe, you thought, you'd walk by the Welcome Center tomorrow while you were running errands. Just on the off-chance that you'd catch a glimpse of the handsome stranger before he was gone.