Gossip spread through the Saints Hotel in Valentine like feathers through a chicken coop, especially when the hens were spooked.

Madelaine Vallières stretched across the mattress, pressing one of her knees down onto the bed in order to tuck the sheet beneath the end. Above her, she heard the quiet swish of flat feet on the floorboards. They weren't allowed to wear heeled shoes to work, not when there were treasured customers sleeping all around them. The whispers were louder than the incessant back and forth through the hallways.

There were new men in town, the whispers said. Or, at least, that's what she could assume from what she heard in passing. Bits and pieces of murmured words weren't difficult to sew into something that made sense.

Lifting one of the pillows, Madelaine busied herself with fluffing the feathers inside.

There weren't just new men in town. They were different from the usual.

Valentine had enough traffic running through it that they saw plenty of business. The Saints Hotel never hurt for new customers, and those living in the vicinity liked the girls enough that they'd pay the money for a bath on occasion, even if they didn't really have the means.

Madelaine hadn't caught a glimpse of the first one who came through, but she had her ear bent five times by the girls she worked with the night before. Each of them had another good thing to say about his rich voice and his rough, but gentle nature. The one who scrubbed him down — an older woman called Viola — said his name was Arthur, and that they weren't staying too far out of town for the time being.

"He certainly was a handsome thing," Viola continued, one of her aching feet kicked up on the low rim of a washing basin. She fanned at the dark, glistening skin of her chest. "What a fine jaw. And his eyes? Oh, Lord."

She set the pillow down and reached for the second. The bedding had been warmed by the sun pouring in through the tall window, and through the glass, she could see a few of the stores across the way, as well as the men, women, and horses who traveled back and forth through the path that cut through the middle of Valentine like a belt.

There weren't many handsome men in those parts.

They weren't to her taste, at least, having grown up deep in the South where men dressed fine and spent most of their time indoors to keep out of the humidity. When she thought of a good-looking man, the picture of an old friend of her family's came to mind — a man, tall as anything, with a thick black beard shot through with gray and a laugh smoky as whiskey.

The owner of the Saints wasn't bad on the eyes. He had a gentle nature to him, but she liked a bit of fire, as well.

Maybe she was just too picky.

"Not the time," Madelaine muttered to herself with a laugh like she couldn't quite believe where her mind was going. "You got beds to make, and dirty men to wash. Think about that, why don't you?"

Dropping the pillow down where it was meant to lay, she smoothed her hands over the gunmetal gray of her skirt and straightened her back. Even after only a few hours of work, she could feel herself tremble with the effort it took to keep herself upright. There were only a few other girls who worked there who suffered as she did, all thanks to the weight they were carrying up front.

A nasty curse was what her mama left to her — a weak back and breasts the size of damned melons — but it was better to think about that than the handsome cowboys and likely outlaws who were living outside of Valentine.

Her work kept her fed, though there wasn't much in the way of variety and she missed the food she grew up with something horrible. Her work kept a roof over her head, though it wasn't much of one and leaked when the rains got heavy. Her work kept her happily busy, though there was the occasional mislaid hand that left her spitting mad.

Madelaine looked from the perfectly folded sheets to the emptied commode to the landscape painting that hung on the wall. Everything seemed to be in place for the next person who'd pass through. There was even a cluster of buttercups in a green-glass vase on the chest of drawers, their petals as pretty as the bedding.

The Saints Hotel wasn't the finest hotel in all of America, but the people who visited weren't looking for that or willing to pay those prices. It looked nice enough in Madelaine's eyes, however.

Picking up the basket she'd dropped at the foot of the bed, the one full of folded sheets and pillow cases and candles meant to freshen any otherwise stale-smelling rooms, she left with every intention of moving on to the next unoccupied chamber to do the same. Work wasn't the same every day, but setting up recently vacated rooms was one of the easiest tasks on offer. It was better than doing the washing or cleaning out the commodes, better than giving baths and washing hair.

It was lonely work, but the hotel was never quiet enough for that feeling of being alone to sneak up on her more than once or twice a week.

Just as soon as Madelaine opened the door, she found herself face-to-face with one of the other girls who worked with her.

Evelyn was a tiny little thing, with dark hair that fell in straight sheets on either side of her heart-shaped face. "We need another set of hands," she said, "and everybody else is already indisposed."

Madelaine lifted the basket in her arms. "What do you think this is?"

Evelyn set her own basket on the floor before taking Madelaine's without issue, setting it on top of her own before lifting them both up. She was strong for how small she was. They all were. "It's mine now, Maddie. Now, are you gonna listen?"

An edge of impatience clung to every word. Madelaine knew better than to push her.

"Yes, Evelyn. I'm gonna to listen."

"Mister Hughes needs you upstairs in the third bathing room." The directions were short and to the point. She wanted more details in order to be better prepared, but she'd already demanded too much of Evelyn's time and wasted too much of her own. Apparently. "The gentleman paid the extra fifty cents for the oil, too, so be sure to bring that in."

The oil was a clouded glass bottle of bath oil brought in from London, and it was the most expensive thing in the hotel save for the furnishings. Mister Hughes could only afford one scent at a time. The one they kept in a locked cabinet on the ground floor smelled of bergamot and lily of the valley.

Madelaine thumbed over the tiny key hanging from her belt by a lilac-colored ribbon and nodded. She hated leaving her work half-finished, but sending Evelyn into a fury that might just as well bring the hotel down around them wasn't the better option. Any fool would know that.

"Thank you for taking up the rest of the rooms," she offered with a smile. That seemed to diffuse a little of the young woman's tense nature. "I'll be up with him in a moment."

They parted ways there. Evelyn tucked into one of the nearby rooms while Madelaine made her way down to the end of the hallway and the closet space where they kept the things that might've inspired a burglary if they were kept up front by the desk. After unlocking the cabinet where Mister Hughes kept his oldest and strongest liquors beside the bath oil from Penhalgion's, she removed one of the smaller, unmarked bottles of the oil and returned the lock to its place.

A quick glance into the mirror that sat on the cabinet confirmed that she looked just fine, that her hair was in place and her lips were soft and pink. Little more than that mattered in her line of work. Men rarely noticed the state of her skin so much as they noticed other things, other things that were also carefully pinned away behind her corset and high-necked blouse.

It wasn't often that men paid the extra money to take the oil in their water. Most just paid for the water and the brushing. Fewer still liked to talk, but those were her favorite. There was nothing more painfully boring than scrubbing down a man who didn't even talk to you, not even opening his mouth to thank you. She hoped the man behind the door would prove to be as charming as his tastes were expensive.

As she made her way through the straight hallways of the hotel, Madelaine brushed shoulders with a handful of familiar men and the even more numerous women who worked alongside her. Only when she saw Viola did she reach out to stop one of them. Her arms were reddened from hot water halfway up to her elbows, but it was the tired way she smiled that told Madelaine more about the bath she'd just finished giving.

"Could you tell Harvey to bring up a few buckets of hot water?" she asked, unable to keep the pleading note from her voice. "The third bathing room, upstairs, if you don't mind."

"Oh, darlin', I don't mind."

Madelaine gave her wrist a gentle squeeze. "Thank you," she said, the bottle of oil warming in her other palm. "Thank you, thank you."

The older woman's laugh was sweet and goading. She freed herself from Madelaine's grip before tossing that same hand at and past her in the direction of the stairwell that led up to the second floor. "Go on, pretty girl. You got a gentleman waiting. Get."

Madelaine lifted her skirts with one hand as she took the stairs, quick but not two at a time. If she took a tumble, it would be bad enough to break an arm or leg. Shattering one of Mister Hughes's bottles of bath oil would be taken out of her pay… for about six months. Nevermind that the creaking and heavy footfalls would wake everyone who didn't sleep like the dead.

She mounted the last stair and let her skirt fall from her hand before tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. There was a few yards between her and the door that led to the third bathing room, just enough of a distance to catch her breath before entering.

There was nothing pretty about huffing and puffing on someone who paid good money to get washed.

Madelaine took quiet, even steps as she inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. Every time she forced herself to deepen her breaths, her ribs ached a little. She patted a hand down over the fabric of her blouse, fingertips sliding over the rigid lines of featherbone.

By the time she reached the door, Madelaine had more than caught her breath. Her knuckled rapped against the door — a precaution to make sure the gentleman was in a comfortable state before she entered. There was no response, so a careful assumption was made. She twisted the doorknob and pushed the heavy wooden door open.

Every bathing room looked the same, give or take a few details that were hardly noticeable to anyone who didn't spend their lives in them. There was a large slipper tub in the very center, half-wood and half-tin, with a copper tray stretched across it. Behind the bathtub was a privacy screen covered in an almost fancy cream and brown brocade pattern. There was a hanger for clothes the customer didn't need cleaned and a washing basin made of polished pine wood, complete with a small, standing mirror and a complete shaving kit.

A man stood at the basin in the middle of washing his face. He was stripped down to his waist, baring a muscular back that was covered in dark beauty marks and moles and the occasional freckle. His skin was the color of cream where it wasn't bruised or scarred or darkened from sun damage.

"Good afternoon," Madelaine greeted him, turning to shut the door without so much as doing a double take. "The water will be up in a moment, sir."

He made a sound of recognition before dragging both of his damp hands through his hair. It was black as soot and hung down near the nape of his neck, almost to his shoulders. There was a softness to the way the ends feathered out against his skin.

Madelaine couldn't help but notice how clean he was, like he'd already been seen to.

When he turned around, she finally did that double take. The man standing in front of her didn't look like anyone in Valentine. Not even the occasional well-to-do traveler didn't look quite so fine. There was something damn near regal about him as he stood there, thick-waisted and nonchalant, staring right at her as she stared at him.

"And what would your name be, miss?"

Madelaine wet her lips, both hands curling around the bottle of bath oil. "Madelaine," she said.

"Mad-uh-lain," he repeated, nodding as he wiped his damp face with a hand towel. Rather than just tossing it aside, he folded the square of fabric neatly before setting it on the table that stood beside the tub. "You pronounce it differently than I'm familiar with — Mad-uh-line?"

The air in the room was still warm and slightly humid from the last person who came through needing a bath, but the road carried too much of a smell to open one of the windows.

"I'm not from around here," she offered him, moving around the foot of the tub to set the bath oil beside the lamp that flickered on that same table. While she was there, she turned the burner down lower. The golden light dimmed a little, flickering against the clouded glass. "I come from Louisiana originally."

"Ah, yes. That's the accent."

Madelaine shot him a small smile. "May I have your name, too?"

The man stilled for a moment, as if some inner conflict took him, but it only took a moment for the victor to rise to the surface. The corner of his broad mouth tucked upward in a smile of his own. "You may call me Dutch, Miss Madelaine."

Most people struggled with her name, or just gave up and called her Madeline.

He didn't.

Just as Madelaine opened her mouth to ask him about himself, there was a knock at the door. She rushed over and opened it, knowing Harvey would be carrying two heavy buckets of hot water for the bath. And there he was, huffing and puffing twice as hard as she had, all splotchy red cheeks and windblown brown hair.

"Thank you, Harvey."

She took the buckets one by one, carrying them with both hands over to the bath and emptying them with some effort. Harvey gave her a flustered smile and nodded to Dutch before leaving them be. She lifted a key from the belt at her waist and locked the door behind him.

Steam curled up off of the water, even in a room that was already so warm. It was the perfect temperature for the oil, though she wasn't convinced he wouldn't scald himself by getting in right then. She dealt with overeager costumers more often than she cared to, but Dutch didn't seem like that sort of man.

Maybe he'd surprise her.

"How long have you been in these parts?" Madelaine asked as she removed the stopper from the unmarked bottle of oil. She held it out to him, a precaution to make sure he even cared for the stuff. Watching as he sniffed the contents, her teeth snagged at her bottom lip to keep from smiling. "I haven't seen you around before."

"That might very well be because we haven't been around." The response didn't carry any details, but there was enough for her to pick up on things. He was new in town, and he wasn't alone. Most men traveled by themselves if they were passing through on business. They didn't use 'we,' either, which was what gave Madelaine the idea that he might be one of those outlaws staying outside of Valentine. "We've only been in the area for a week or so. Valentine is a nice enough town."

Before she could respond, he nodded at the bottle of bath oil. "Quality stuff. I'm impressed."

Madelaine chuckled. "It'll leave your skin feeling like silk and smelling like a buncha oranges," she told him as she dropped a decent amount of the oil into the water. Once the bottle was stoppered and kept where no stray limb might upturn it, she sat down upon the rim of the tub and began swirling her hand around in the water in order to get all of it mixed. "Do you like oranges, Mr. Dutch?"

"Please, just Dutch."

When she lifted her head in his direction, Dutch was working open the heavy-looking silver buckle of his belt, revealing even more of the dense, black hair that trailed down from his navel. There wasn't a day of working that she could remember when she hadn't seen three or four naked men, sometimes more. But there was something about Dutch that separated him from the men who paid the extra fifty cents for a lady to bathe them.

He didn't ask for privacy, but she gave it to him when her cheeks swam suddenly with warmth, forcing her to duck her head.

"For what it's worth, I do enjoy the occasional orange," Dutch told her. Then, from the sound of it, he removed one boot and then another, setting them down beside the basin with a quiet jangle of spurs. "There's all that 'apple a day' nonsense, when you're better off chewing on citrus to keep yourself from falling to scurvy."

With his boots off, all that was left was his trousers and underthings. Madelaine swirled her forefinger through the water as she waited for him to finish up. The water was smooth and nearly hot enough to make her draw her hand back.

"Would you like me to put in the soap flakes, too? For bubbles?" she asked without glancing back at him.

"No bubbles, Miss Madelaine." Her ears perked up, listening to the ruffle of him folding his trousers and the quiet thump of his feet on the floorboards as he removed his britches. "I don't much care for them."

From what Viola said the night before, her customer had been a sweet-natured man. He made quiet conversation, thanked her for her work, and smiled when she planted a motherly kiss on the top of his head. Dutch seemed to be the same sort of man. The outlaws living outside of Valentine didn't seem much like the blood-thirsty marauders she'd been warned about so often.

Dutch was almost genteel. It was a nice change from the people she tended to most days.

Madelaine stood as Dutch took his first step into the water, waiting until he submerged himself up to the waist to twist around and begin her work. Where the water sloshed against his skin, the creamy color was left a bright pink. If the bath was too hot for him, he made no complaints. He didn't hop right out of the water, either, as men with thinner skin were likely to do, leaving the floorboards all wet and dripping down to the bathing room below.

"How is the temperature?" she asked. If prompted, she could add some tepid water in to even things out a bit. "Feel nice?"

"The streams of New Hanover are still ice cold, Miss Madelaine." Dutch tipped his head back, resting the crown of it against the rim of the bath. He sank a ways down into the water, one hand on his knee and the other covering his manhood. "Water this hot is a heavenly blessing."

He shut his eyes. Only then did Madelaine notice how long and thick his eyelashes were. Like a cow's, really.

"We've got two types of soap on offer." Madelaine reached for the wooden box that sat beside the oil lamp and flipped open its cover revealing two bars of differing sizes. One was much smaller than the other, having been more frequently chosen during the past few weeks. "One's cinnamon, the other's honey."

Dutch cracked an eye open to get a look at the box of soap. The smaller of them was a pale golden color, almost the same shade as Madelaine's hair. Yellower still was the other bar. It smelled strongly of cinnamon, though there were sharp, spicy notes in both of them.

"I'll take the cinnamon," he murmured without lifting his hand from the water to point at the larger of the two bars.

Madelaine busied herself after that, rubbing the bar of soap into a lather in her dampened hands and smoothing her palms up over Dutch's broad shoulders. His skin was already soft, and the bath oil would only leave him feeling softer. She knew that from experience. Felt like she was wearing gloves for days after someone requested the stuff.

With every tender press of her hands, she felt Dutch shift under her touch. He sighed more than he talked, not that he sat in the sort of uncomfortable silence she had to deal with sometimes. If he was traveling on horseback, there was no wonder that he was sore.

She dragged her fingers down one of his arms and massaged the cinnamon soap deep into his tense muscles. And God, he was tense. There wasn't an inch of him that didn't tremble before giving way to her hands.

"How do you find Valentine?" Madelaine found herself asking to fill the room's quiet. Outside in the hallway, there was always someone talking or walking back and forth or snoring so loud you'd think the roof would cave in. It never did, but sometimes, the china that Mister Hughes kept in reception shook under a particularly firm footfall. "Do y'all plan on staying long?"

Again, she was met with the lingering hush of confrontation. Dutch worked his jaw, wet his lips, then told her: "We'll stay in these parts for as long as we can, but I don't think it'll be forever."

His chest rose and fell with a chuckle.

"We aren't usually that lucky."

Madelaine was glad that his willingness to reveal small truths was so strong. She hated it when men turned on her or snapped for her to shut up when she was just asking them simple questions. She could deal with someone asking her to focus on their bath, but when they raised their voice, something inside of her shriveled up.

She stood, shifting onto the rim of the bath again. The band of tin around the bathtub was thick enough to not be much of a pain, but she was used to balancing on it anyway. Taking his hand in both of hers, she began to wash over his callused palms and nails. They were relatively clean, just like the rest of him, but there was nothing wrong with being thorough. That's what he paid for, after all.

"You said you were from Louisiana," Dutch murmured. His voice sank back in his throat, sounding sticky as honey. "Have you ever been down to Saint Denis?"

Madelaine snorted before she could stop herself; the sound was full of bile. She curled her long, skinny fingers around his in surprise, turning to apologize only to see that his face was scrunched up in a laugh.

"Oh, you are from Louisiana, aren't you?" His laugh softened into a chuckle. "That was the reaction of a native."

Madelaine dunked Dutch's hand into the water to wash away the suds that lingered between his fingers. Only once the skin was clear did she give it back to him, opening her hands for the other. "May I speak frankly?"

Dutch removed his hand from his upper thigh and settled it into her open, waiting palms.

"Miss Madelaine, I would like nothing more."

"Saint Denis is a cesspit, and this is coming from a woman who's worked in Valentine for near five years." She lathered up another bit of soap before palming the sweet-smelling suds over his skin. It was already softer than before thanks to the bath oil. He smelled of oranges and cinnamon and a little bit of honey. There was no doubt in her mind that some woman back at his camp would take a bite out of him once he got back, looking all fresh and smelling so handsome. "I'd take horse manure up to my ankles over having to wash some couillon Frenchman who thinks he's better than me."

Again, Dutch laughed, but that time, it was even louder. He was bound to wake someone, but she didn't mind, even if Mister Hughes would bluster at her later for encouraging such behavior in a patron.

Madelaine liked his laugh.

It wasn't condescending. It didn't make her feel as if she was being made fun of or mocked for her commentary. That much was new to her, and she found herself wanting to crack him up again.

Letting his other hand off in the water, Madelaine stood from the rim of the tub.

"Is there anything else you'd like me to wash, or would you'd rather handle it?" she asked him, leaning over his shoulder with a water-warm hand poised just there. Water dripped from her fingertips, trailing over the curves of his chest.

Most men preferred washing their more delicate parts on their own. The Saints Hotel wasn't a brothel, after all, and if it was, they wouldn't offer a tug for a measly fifty cents a go. The women of the hotel were there to care for those who passed through, to scrub their backs and make conversation and give people who longed for the simple, comforting touch of another what they wanted.

Dutch proved to be one of those men. Once she handed him a towel and the cinnamon soap, Madelaine turned her attention to his clothing.

"Would you like these laundered?" she asked over her shoulder. "Mister Hughes charges twenty-five cents for it, but considering all that you've paid today, that'll likely cover it."

Dutch made a thoughtful noise as he shifted in the bath. She heard him moving the soap from palm to palm and smiled to herself when she heard him take a deep breath of the scent. He'd be back. She could tell in the slow way he savored everything that he'd be back before long. That was a good feeling.

"Yes, ma'am," he said once he set the soap down on the copper tray, hands sinking down into the water. "I would like that very much. You wouldn't have something to save my clothes from the dust on the road, would you?"

Madelaine felt a tickle of laughter in her throat, but settled for a smile, one he could likely hear in her voice. "Sorry, sir, but we don't have anything like that on offer. You might could find a poncho at the general store."

"A poncho?" Dutch hummed around a chuckle. "I do not believe I could pull one off, Miss Madelaine."

Once she had his clothes folded into a neat, careful little pile, Madelaine brought them to her chest. Dutch was still washing himself as she passed by, glancing up from his work to meet her eyes.

"I'll go and bring these down so someone'll get started on washing them. Do you mind?"

Dutch lifted a hand. Every part of him that had been submerged into the bath was pink as a piglet, and even the parts of him that hadn't touched the hot water were slowly warming up, filling with a similar color. There was little of him that hadn't been touched by a flush — not his hairy chest or his throat or his cheeks. "I do not mind, no."

With the lock undone and the door shut, Madelaine took a moment to stand in the narrow hallway that led between half a dozen rooms on the second floor. A rug stretched underfoot, making her footfalls even more quiet as she hurried down to the stairwell and then down the stairs themselves.

She was so distracted by the idea of getting back, in fact, that she nearly ran into Harvey, who was carting another pair of buckets down to one of the bathing rooms on the first floor. The surprise pulled a gasp out of her, but didn't upturn the buckets. She was grateful for that much.

After giving Harvey a flurry of apologies, Madelaine rushed past him and down the stone stairwell at the back of the hotel to the small building on the far side of the yard where everyone did their washing. It was painted the same color as the Saints, but was a little shabbier when it came to upkeep. No one really bothered with upkeep when it was nothing but someplace to wash clothes and bedding.

Two massive wooden buckets sat in the middle of the room. One was full of bright yellow sheets while the other was blessedly unoccupied. On the far side of the hutch stood the stove that was used for warming water, as well as a chest full of soaps and sodas for washing. Perched on one of the four stools surrounding the buckets was one of the younger girls who worked there, her blue-black hair done up in a tighter bun than what was in style.

Ngoc didn't stop stirring the sheets through the soap even when she looked up to see who entered. Upon noticing Madelaine, she managed a tiny smile.

She wasn't alone. Viola was there, resting in between shifts, and Iris leaned against one of the cabinets, looking bored rather than tired. It wasn't difficult to pick out who she'd ask to wash and dry Dutch's things.

"Iris," Madelaine called, getting the woman's attention without issue. Keeping it would be the problem. "Can you do me a favor?"

Iris was a short young woman with even shorter hair and an often insolent expression. Mister Hughes had very nearly fired her more times than Madelaine could remember, but he never quite got to that point. He was a bit of a pushover, after all, and Iris could be a little frightening.

"Maybe," Iris said, though she didn't move. "Why can't you do it?"

Viola rapped her on the shoulder with her bony knuckles. "Don't be a pill, girl. Everyone's busy 'cept you. You might as well earn your keep for once."

Madelaine set the pile of clothes on one of the stools and shot Ngoc a small smile of her own, ducking out of the hutch right as Iris launched into a tirade about the ungrateful Mister Hughes. She followed the planks of wood that made a trail across the muddy yard, skirts rucked up higher than was decent to avoid getting them dirty.

By the time she reached Dutch, he was finished his bathing. Someone had come by in the time that she'd been gone and offered him a drink, something colored like honey from the locked cabinet on the first floor.

He swirled the drink around in the glass and looked up at her from beneath heavy lids. Never before had she seen a man look so comfortable.

"How long should it be?" he asked her as she locked busied herself with locking the door. He took a short sip from his drink and sucked in a breath when it burned him right back. "I was planning on meeting up with someone in an hour or two."

Madelaine considered loads of clothes and bedding that Ngoc and Iris and the others had to contend with. Then, she thought of Dutch and his 'hour or two.'

"You and Mister Hughes are about the same size," she said, moving over to the basin and pulling out the drawer to reveal another, milder bar of soap. "I could go down and borrow one of his suits for you until your clothes are ready."

Dutch didn't respond immediately. He never seemed to be quick on the draw when it came to his words, as if he was weighing them before introducing them to his tongue.

"That sounds fine, Miss Madelaine," he said after an extended bit of quiet. "Will they be finished by nightfall, at least?"

They would be finished long before nightfall — cleaned and dried and pressed in about four hours, as long as they didn't get even busier in the meantime. She picked up the bar from the basin and turned towards him again, pausing for a moment to watch as he ran his fingers through his hair before setting down his glass on the copper tray.

Dutch was almost too good-looking in her eyes. No man could be that handsome and have a good heart. It just wasn't fair to the men around him.

"They'll be finished by nightfall," she assured him as she returned to the rim of the tub, dunking the bar of soap into the water.

The tub managed to hold in most of the heat, but after a bath, it was more warm than hot. He didn't seem to mind, though. Didn't ask for the bathtub to be refilled. Didn't tell her to hurry. He just sat there and watched her with steady brown eyes, and she let herself focus on the suds.

"Thank you for this, Miss Madelaine. It has been a long, long time since I last indulged in something that felt as fine as this." Dutch leaned forward as she bid him, offering his hair to her for washing. "I wager I'll be back before long."

"Madelaine," she said softly, her words as light as the orange-scented bubbles that clung to her fingers. "Just Madelaine."

She could hear the smile in his laugh. She could hear the whiskey in it, too.