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Ezra had been in a goodly number of bath houses over the years. Perhaps more than his fair share, for all manner of knotty reasons he didn’t care to examine, and doubtless more than simple personal hygiene demanded. Cramped, sweaty places most of them, especially out here on the borders of civilization, with damp duckboards and towels that could flay off your skin. They smelled of coal, wet wood, unclean bodies, and a generic type of soap.
The one here in town was by no means the worst he’d ever frequented. It was clean for the most part, despite the usual layer of grit on the floor. The proprietor, Denny, was pleasant and not on the take as far as Ezra could tell.
Appreciation for Ezra’s frequent custom was extended in the form of a certain amount of privacy out of hours. Times when he could be in there alone or, as Denny intimated with a wink, accompanied by a guest. No questions asked, so long as she didn’t leave any feathers or red petticoats behind. Not that Ezra had ever considered that kind of company. Nor had the guts to invite the actual company he did want.
Instead, as usual, here he was in the tub, and in the bath-house, all alone. Late in the evening, one guttering lamp, and a draught coming in from the window.
It was cold, headed for the new year, and Ezra hadn’t seen most of his fellow-peacekeepers since before Christmas. Seemed Josiah and Nathan were forever out of town taking succour to the poor, outcast, and weary. Mighty public-spirited of them of course, but it didn’t help Ezra much. JD and Buck were around, sometimes, but they’d fixed on Nettie Wells as a grand source of home comfort this time of the year, and as long as the roof wasn’t coming off town they were content to hang around with her and Miss Casey doing odd-jobs and eating good dinners. Vin, of course, could be relied on if there was real trouble afoot, but no helping the fact he was a will o’the wisp, forever disappearing into the wilderness. And as for Mr. Larabee...
Here Ezra sighed heavily, sent a tidal wave of hot, soapy water over the rim of the tub.
Chris hadn’t up and left, as such. He’d told them he was going south for a few days. Planned to visit an old army friend, get away from all the infernal jollity. Only he hadn’t said ‘infernal’, he’d said something else entirely. His absence made everything complicated. Seemed to untether the others. Left Ezra with a pit in his stomach.
Still, with the water middling hot, and town blessedly calm, Ezra determined he’d enjoy this. Wallow in the rare luxury of French soap and peace. Vaguely wishing he’d had the foresight to bring along a bottle of something, Ezra leaned his head back. He didn’t intend to doze, but it was pleasant to rest his eyes.
Yes, really very pleasant.
The soft knock on the door shocked the life out of him.
His gun, strategically placed on a shelf by the soap dish, was in his hand before he hardly realized. He wasn’t sure why some murdering miscreant would knock first, but for sure he hadn’t been expecting a visitor. Hadn’t heard anyone in the outer office either.
“Nathan?” he hazarded, the water sluicing off his shoulders as he sat upright. Nathan was the only one of them who might have manners enough to knock. Or fret Ezra was catching his death in the evening chill.
“Heard you were here,” came a gruff voice.
Ezra almost dropped the damn gun in the water. The door was pushed open quietly, and there was a jingle of spurs.
“MIS-ter Larabee!” he sputtered.
Chris toed shut the door with a chuckle. “Put the damn piece away, Ezra,” he said. “I haven’t come to shoot you.”
“Well, what in hell are you here for?” Ezra said rudely. He fumbled the gun back on to the shelf. His heart was hammering, and no longer from shock. Under the waterline his toes curled and he felt his color rising as if a new jug of steaming hot water had just been tipped right in.
Ezra resented his own reaction to Chris’s appearance. The sight of him. Just the damn sight. It was too bad.
“Thought I’d come wash off the trail.” Chris’s voice was low and steady, although there was a contrary glint in his eye. “Can’t see any reason to be surprised. This isn’t your personal bath-house.”
“That’s all you know,” Ezra drawled back, regaining some composure. No sense in giving Larabee too much pleasure in his discomfiture.
Chris dropped a saddle-bag down on the floor. He removed his hat, hung it on a hook, pushed a hand through his hair.
“Hell, Ezra, I was hoping you might be more pleased to see me. ”
So hard to tell if the man was being sarcastic or genuine.
“If you’ll just close the curtain,” Ezra said, prim. “I’ll finish up and leave you to it. You can take this tub, there’s plenty of hot water in the copper.”
“Share your tub?”
“Well obviously not while I’m in it,” Ezra blurted, felt his color rise again.
Chris gave a low laugh. He made no move to draw the curtain but picked up the saddle-bag and began to root around in it. A bottle appeared, two glass tumblers, and a couple of church candles.
“Lord, does Josiah know you’ve been on a raid?”
Chris smirked some but didn’t reply. He carefully lit both candles from the lamp, then filled the tumblers. Pulling up a stool next to the tub, he handed Ezra one.
“This is for you, Ezra.” Chris paused. “For us.”
“Obliged,” Ezra croaked. “I’m sure.”
The candlelight caught gold tones in Chris’s hair. The liquid in the tumblers glowed.
“While I was gone,” Chris said, when they’d chinked glass on glass, taken a sip of the ruby red. “I had a think. About it being a time for giving and sharing.”
“And what did you conclude?”
“That perhaps I oughta.” Chris's face split in a smile that was either sweet as spun sugar, or too damn wicked to contemplate. “So, Mr. Standish. There room in there for me?”
Naked in a bath-house at the ends of the earth, an ungodly chill skittering across his bare skin and no idea what was likely to happen next, Ezra wondered if this might be the most absurdly romantic moment of his life.
Not to mention an extremely Happy New Year.