Phoenix Maplewood half-savage and hardy

Rannoch acknowledged Bronte's comment with a nod; it wasn't the first time he had heard the observation, and it wouldn't be the last. At this point, he had grown used to the remark. 

"Bronte Atticus DeMonte," a strong name, Rannoch thought, "It's a pleasure to meet you." Although he was focused on Bronte, Rannoch was mindful of the woman who withheld from conversing when them. Her actions thus far didn't sit right with him. 

Despite his unease, he kept the formalities going between Bronte and himself. "You don't smell like you're from around here," he remarked with evident curiosity. There was something intertwined within Bronte's musk— it was a fume of independence that Rannoch had only experienced when he was a vagabond.