Page 2 of Wild Spirit Revival (Montana Becketts, Wild Spirit Ranch #1)

Her next stop was a quaint general store, its windows filled with an eclectic array of goods. A bell chimed as she entered. A portly man with a jovial smile greeted her.

“Welcome. I’m Esau Perkins. What can I do for you today?” His gaze landed on the wooden box she set on the floor.

“Hello, Mr. Perkins. I’m Molly O’Sullivan, a photographer new to town. I was hoping to capture some images of Bozeman’s businesses and perhaps learn a bit about the area.”

“A photographer, you say? We haven’t had one for a while. Not sense, well…best not to dwell on what happened to him. You’re more than welcome to take pictures of my store, Miss O’Sullivan.”

As Molly set up her camera, curiosity settled over her. “What happened to the last photographer, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Esau’s expression darkened. “Oh, it’s a bit of a sore subject around here. Poor fella met an untimely end while trying to photograph some unsavory characters passing through town. But don’t you worry your pretty head about his fate. Bozeman’s a fine place, full of good folks.”

“I see. Well, Mr. Perkins, perhaps you could tell me about some of the other businesses in town while I work?”

As she captured images of the store’s interior, Esau regaled her with tales of Bozeman’s colorful inhabitants and thriving community. With each image, Molly felt a growing excitement for the anticipated adventures ahead.

The following morning, Molly set out early, her camera box slung over her shoulder and a newfound determination in her step. The streets of Bozeman were already bustling with activity, the air filled with the scent of freshly baked bread and the sound of horses’ hooves on packed dirt.

As she rounded a corner, Molly nearly collided with a tall, striking woman in a crisp white apron. “Oh, I do beg your pardon.”

The woman’s face broke into a grin when she noticed the wooden box. “No harm done, dear. You must be the photographer everyone’s been talking about.”

Molly nodded, extending her hand. “Molly O’Sullivan, at your service.”

“Clara Hawkins,” the woman replied, shaking Molly’s hand firmly. “I own the Bozeman Bakery just down the street. You simply must come by and take some photographs. I’d love to show off my girls hard at work.”

Molly’s eyes widened. “Your girls?”

Clara chuckled. “The bakery opened five years ago, and I’ve only hired women. If they don’t know how to bake, they learn and become very loyal. It also keeps them away from less savory work.” She shot Molly a knowing look. “Bozeman’s got quite a few women who own businesses around here.”

Intrigued, she followed Clara to the bakery, curious as to the woman’s history. “Have you always lived in Bozeman, Mrs. Hawkins?”

“Came out here with my husband about ten years ago. When he passed, I knew I had to make my own way. Turns out, I had quite the knack for baking.”

Entering the bakery, the sweet aroma of cinnamon and sugar enveloped them. Three young women bustled about, kneading dough and arranging pastries.

“Ladies,” Clara called out. “This is Miss O’Sullivan. She’s going to take some photographs of us at work.”

While Molly set up her equipment, she engaged the women in conversation, marveling at their stories of independence and determination. As she captured image after image, she found herself deeply moved by the strength and resilience of these frontier women.

“If you’re interested, a group of women who own businesses are meeting tomorrow morning. It’s in the dining room of the Bozeman Hotel.”

“Oh, that’s where I’m staying. I’d love to attend if it wouldn’t be an intrusion.”

“No intrusion at all. Would you mind taking a few minutes to share how you became a photographer?” Clara asked.

“Not at all. It isn’t a complicated story, so it won’t take much time.”

Clara tapped a finger against her lips. “You know, if you’re looking for more to photograph, you might want to head down to Mystic. It’s a small town south of here. They have some colorful characters and beautiful scenery.”

Molly’s interest was piqued. “Mystic? I hadn’t heard of it. How far is it?”

“Oh, not far at all. About eleven miles south. You can take the stagecoach.”

Leaving the bakery a short time later, Molly considered her options. Mystic could be the kind of place she’d come west to document. First, she had more of Bozeman to explore, more stories to uncover, and more remarkable women to meet. And hopefully, a thief arrested and brought to justice.

Molly hurried to dress the following morning, her heart beating with anticipation. She smoothed her simple cotton dress and adjusted the cameo pinned to the bodice, eager to make a good impression at the breakfast meeting.

Leaving her room, she rushed down the stairs, her gaze sparkling with excitement. Entering the hotel’s dining room, a tall, striking woman, with dark hair pinned neatly back, approached her with an outstretched hand.

“You must be Molly,” she said, her voice measured and confident. “I’m Mrs. Ada Green. Welcome to our little gathering.”

Molly shook her hand enthusiastically. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Green.”

As Ada led her to the table, Molly’s gaze swept across the room, taking in the diverse group of women seated around it. Her heart swelled with a sense of belonging she hadn’t felt since leaving Chicago.

“Ladies,” Ada announced, “this is Molly O’Sullivan, the photographer Clara told us about.”

A chorus of greetings followed, and Molly found herself seated between a graceful blonde woman and a stern-looking older lady with steel-gray hair.

The blonde turned to her with a smile. “I’m Evelyn Graham, the schoolteacher in Mystic. It’s wonderful to meet you, Molly.”

Molly’s eyes widened. “Mystic? I’ve just heard about it yesterday. It sounds fascinating.”

“Oh, it is. You must visit. The landscapes alone are worth the trip.”

“You made the long trip for this meeting?” Molly asked.

Evelyn chuckled. “Oh, no. School isn’t in session right now, so I took the stage to Bozeman with my mother. We’ll spend a few days before returning to Mystic.”

As plates of eggs and bacon were served, the conversation flowed from one topic to another. Molly listened, offering her own thoughts and experiences when she thought it appropriate.

“The biggest challenge is getting men to take our businesses seriously,” a woman named Agnes said. “They seem to think we’ll swoon at the first sign of trouble or controversy. If a woman is married, the bank will require a loan be in her husband’s name. It’s humiliating.”

Ada nodded. “That’s precisely why we established our own fund for women.”

Molly’s eyes widened. “You have a fund just for women?”

“Oh, yes,” Ada answered. “We loan money the same as banks. The women must make monthly payments.”

“Our interest rate is a little lower than the bank’s,” Clara said with a mischievous grin.

“Where does the money come from?” Molly asked.

Ada looked around the room. “From this group, as well as a few other women who don’t want their names connected to us. It’s why gatherings such as ours are so important. We need to support each other and share information.”

“Mother and I support this group,” Evelyn said. “Father doesn’t know we’re involved. As the president of the Bank of Mystic, he’d be quite agitated at what these women are doing for each other.”

As the meal progressed, Molly felt a growing sense of camaraderie with these remarkable women. Their stories of perseverance and triumph in the face of adversity stirred something deep within her.

“What about you, Molly?” Evelyn asked. “What brought you out west?”

She hesitated, her thoughts drifting to the evening she told her parents of her decision to leave Chicago. “I suppose I was looking for adventure. A chance to see the country and capture it through my lens.”

The stern-looking woman beside her harrumphed. “Adventure, is it? Well, you’ll find plenty of that out here, missy. Just be careful it doesn’t swallow you whole.”

Molly turned to her, intrigued. “What do you mean?”

The woman’s eyes glinted. “This part of the country can be unforgiving, especially to those who aren’t prepared for its challenges. You seem like a smart girl, but don’t let your eagerness blind you to the dangers.”

A hush fell over the table, and Molly felt a shiver run down her spine. The woman’s words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the untamed nature of the frontier. As she opened her mouth to respond, a commotion outside the hotel caught everyone’s attention. The sound of pounding hooves and shouting voices filled the air, and the women rushed to the window to see what was happening.

As the women peered out the window, Molly’s curiosity got the better of her. She leaned forward, wishing she had her camera set up to catch the action outside.

“My word,” exclaimed Mrs. Agnes Abernathy, a plump woman with kind eyes. “It looks like trouble’s coming. It’s nine in the morning. Surely, those men don’t plan to enter the saloon.”

Outside, a group of rough-looking men on horseback had pulled up in front of the saloon across the street. Their loud voices and boisterous laughter carried through the air, setting Molly’s nerves on edge.

Agnes turned to Molly, her expression serious. “Speaking of dangers, dear, I hope you’re not planning on opening a portraiture store here in Bozeman.”

Molly blinked, surprised by the sudden change in topic. “I hadn’t given it much thought. Why do you ask?”

The older woman’s face clouded with concern. “Well, we had a photographer here not too long ago. Poor fellow met a rather… unfortunate end.”

Molly leaned in. “I heard he died.”

Agnes lowered her voice, glancing at the commotion outside. “He was taking a photograph of a group of gunslingers passing through town. One moment, he was adjusting his camera. The next…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

Molly felt a chill run down her spine. “You mean he was…?”

“Shot dead, right there in the street,” Agnes finished, her expression grim. “Someone, no one knows who, didn’t want him taking pictures of the gunslingers, I’m afraid.”

Molly’s earlier excitement faded at this sobering tale. She thought of her own camera, safely tucked away in its case. “That’s terrible,” she murmured.

Clara spoke up. “So, Molly, what are your plans then? Surely, you’re not thinking of setting up shop here after hearing what happened.”

Molly took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. “Actually, I have something else in mind. I’m planning to photograph the area between Bozeman and the Wyoming border before traveling into Yellowstone for the rest of the summer. From there, I hope to travel to Seattle.”

The women exchanged glances, a mix of curiosity and concern on their faces.

“Quite an undertaking,” Clara remarked.

“The landscapes, the people, the spirit of the West—I want to capture it all.”

Agnes raised an eyebrow. “Yellowstone? My dear, that’s no place for a young woman alone.”

Molly straightened her shoulders, a determined set to her jaw. “I may be young, but I’m capable.” She thought about trekking through the national park and wondered if her capabilities were enough.

As the women around her murmured their thoughts on her ambitious plans, Molly’s attention was drawn back to the window. The rowdy group outside had dismounted, and one man in particular caught her eye. He was tall, with a shock of white hair and a dangerous glint in his eye visible even from this distance.

When the man whirled around, his gaze appeared to lock on Molly. A chill ran through her at the stark look in his eyes. Backing away from the window, she swallowed the fear his gaze prompted, praying to never come face to face with the terrifying gunman.