Hosea Matthews had seen many women come and go in his long, storied life, some kind, some cruel, most clever enough to survive, but few who stuck with him in memory the way Bessie had. That is, until she came along.

She wasn’t trying to be memorable, that was the trouble. No, she just was. Spirited in all the ways that tugged at Hosea’s old bones, stubborn in a manner that both frustrated and impressed him. Sharp tongue, sharper wit. She didn’t need anyone, made that clear enough, but still people noticed her. Hell, he noticed her. More than he ought to.

It wasn’t just that she reminded him of Bessie, though she certainly did. The fire in her eyes, the steel in her spine. No, it was something else entirely. She reminded him of himself, too, back when he still had a fire of his own, before time and loss had dimmed it. That mix of charm and conviction, recklessness laced with purpose. She was too much like the life he had lived and the woman he had loved and yet wholly herself.

One evening, as the fire crackled low and the rest of the camp had gone quiet, she sat beside him with a flask in hand. Not offering it, just holding it. Like she knew he didn’t drink much anymore but liked being around someone who remembered what it was like to live fast.

“You remind me of someone. But you’re not her. And that’s not why I keep looking. I keep looking because you’re beautiful, stubborn, goddamn brilliant trouble. Besides I’m too old to lie to myself darlin’. Especially about you.”