Valentine, 1899.

Whenever people took a bath in a motel they got offered a luxury bath for 50¢ instead of 25¢. As a man you got help by a woman and as a woman you got help by a man.

The bathroom door opens with a gentle knock, and in comes a tall young ranch hand, hat in hand after he had tipped it down, looking a little nervous to be there. His voice is warm but polite.

“Evenin’, ma’am. I was asked to help with your bath, if that’s alright.”

He kneels beside the tub, careful not to splash, rolling up his sleeves with neat precision and dips the rag into the steaming water. His hands brush over your shoulders, rough but careful. His hands are rough from rope and reins, but his touch is cautious, respectful. He scrubs your arms and shoulders, keeping his gaze mostly on the water, cheeks just faintly pink.

“Hope the temperature’s to your likin’. Nothin’ worse than trail dust stickin’ to ya after a long day,” he says, filling the silence with little friendly words, as if to make sure you’re comfortable. When he brushes over your forearm, he glances up with the sweetest half-smile, like he’s proud of doing a good job.

He shifts to your back, careful with every movement. “Don’t mean to overstep, miss. Just holler if I’m pressin’ too hard.” His voice is soft, almost shy, like he really takes the “helping” part seriously.