Page 3 of Wild Spirit Revival (Montana Becketts, Wild Spirit Ranch #1)

Molly stepped out of Mrs. Henderson’s millinery shop, pleased with the pictures she’d taken of the woman and her displays. Taking a step away, she turned at the woman’s voice.

Mrs. Henderson stood in the shop’s doorway. “Oh, Miss O’Sullivan, I can’t thank you enough. To think, my little shop will be immortalized in your photographs.”

“It’s my pleasure. Your hats are true works of art, and the country should know about the talented women of Bozeman.”

Continuing along the boardwalk, Molly thought about Mrs. Henderson’s comment about her shop being immortalized. It was a concept she didn’t often consider. Each image was a testament to the strength and determination of these frontier women.

Molly headed toward the hotel, recalling her conversation with Ada Green when the morning meeting adjourned. Molly had mentioned the need to find a place to develop her photographs. To her shock, Ada owned the building where the previous photographer had his shop. It was still available with the dark room intact, including chemicals.

Ada had been gracious enough to show Molly the shop. To her delight, it was indeed in good shape, with shelves of chemicals and a dark-box for her dry-plate photography. She offered to purchase the use of the dark room and chemicals, but Ada had waved her off, saying Molly could use whatever she wanted. It was an unexpected gift.

As she made her way down the bustling street, Molly’s thoughts drifted to her impending departure. A mixture of excitement and apprehension swirled in her chest. The town of Mystic was an unknown, full of potential dangers and opportunities alike.

Arriving at Abernathy’s Apothecary, Molly was greeted by the tinkling of a bell above the door. The scent of herbs and tinctures filled the air as she stepped inside.

“Miss O’Sullivan,” Agnes Abernathy called from behind the counter. “Right on time. Shall we begin?”

As Molly set up her equipment, she engaged Agnes in conversation. “Your shop is fascinating. How did you come to open an apothecary in Bozeman?”

Agnes’s eyes lit up as she recounted arriving in the frontier town with her now deceased husband. They’d opened the apothecary, working side by side for years until his passing. Agnes continued the shop alone, offering the same medicines as when her husband had been alive.

Molly found herself captivated by the woman’s tale of perseverance and ingenuity. With each click of the camera shutter, Molly felt she was capturing not just an image but a piece of Bozeman’s living history.

After bidding farewell to Agnes, she made her way to the stagecoach office. The gruff ticket agent, Mr. Hawkins, eyed her warily as she approached the counter.

“One ticket to Mystic for tomorrow’s coach, please,” she requested, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach.

“Mystic, eh? Not many ladies travel there alone. You sure about this, miss?”

Her jaw tightened. “Quite sure, thank you.”

As she exited the office, ticket in hand, Molly couldn’t shake the feeling her adventure was about to take an unexpected turn. Little did she know, the real challenges were yet to come.

The stagecoach creaked and swayed as Molly settled into her seat, her camera equipment safely stowed beneath. She found herself wedged between the window and a rotund drummer, his leather satchel clutched tightly to his chest. Across from them sat a couple with a young daughter, the child’s excited chatter filling the cramped space.

“Mama, look! Horses!” The little girl bounced on the seat.

Her mother smiled. “Yes, dear. Now, please sit still. It won’t be long until we reach Mystic.”

Molly’s gaze drifted out the window as the coach lurched forward, the rhythmic clop of hooves accompanying their departure from Bozeman. The landscape unfurled before her like a living canvas. Rolling hills gave way to rugged mountains, their peaks shrouded in mist.

“First time to Mystic, miss?” the drummer inquired, his voice jolting Molly from her reverie.

She offered a polite smile. “Yes, it is. I’m a photographer, documenting the frontier.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up. “A lady photographer. I’ve always wanted to try one of those contraptions. My name’s Gus Thornton, traveling salesman extraordinaire,” he said with a wink.

As Gus launched into a tale about his travels selling various wares, Molly’s thoughts drifted back to her encounter with the obnoxious man in Bozeman. His arrogant smirk and dismissive tone still made her blood boil.

“You all right there, miss?” Gus asked, noticing her furrowed brow. “Looks like you’ve bitten into a sour apple.”

Molly forced a laugh. “Just remembering an unpleasant encounter.”

The little girl across from them piped up, “Did a mean person make you sad? Mama says when people are mean, it’s ’cause they’re sad themselves.”

Molly’s expression softened. “Your mama sounds very wise. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“I’m Mary! We’re going to visit my grandpa in Mystic. Do you have a grandpa there, too?”

As Molly engaged in conversation with Mary and her parents, the stagecoach continued its journey. The passing scenery captivated her, each bend in the road revealing new wonders.

Suddenly, the coach jerked to a halt, nearly throwing Molly from her seat. The driver’s urgent and fearful shout reached them.

“Ladies and gentlemen! We’ve got a problem up ahead.”

The passengers exchanged worried glances as the driver’s words hung in the air. Molly’s heart raced as she peered out the window, straining to see what had caused their sudden stop.

“What kind of problem?” the drummer beside her called out, his voice tinged with anxiety.

The driver’s response was cut short by the sound of hoofbeats approaching. Molly’s breath caught in her throat as she saw three riders emerging from the dust, their faces obscured by bandanas.

“Everybody out!” a gruff voice commanded. “Nice and slow, hands where we can see ’em.”

Mary whimpered, clinging to her mother. Molly’s fingers traced the watch pinned to her dress. Sheriff Foster had returned it to her the night before while she ate supper at the hotel.

Ezra Gibbons, the owner of Bozeman’s livery and stables, had found it on the ground inside one of the stalls. Gibbons had given a description of the man whose horse had been in the stall. It matched with what Molly had provided the sheriff. She was not going to give it up a second time. Quickly, she removed the watch, bent, and slid it into her boot.

As they filed out of the coach, Molly’s eyes darted around, assessing the situation. The lead bandit, a tall man with piercing eyes, dismounted and approached the group.

“All right, folks. No one will get hurt if you do exactly what I say. Place your valuables in this bag, and don’t do anything foolish.”

Molly’s jaw clenched. She couldn’t lose her camera equipment. As the hat made its way down the line, she searched for a way out.

Everyone turned when a commotion erupted from the front of the coach. The driver had managed to pull a hidden revolver, aiming it at the bandits.

“Drop your weapons!” he shouted, his voice steadier now. Beside him, the guard pointed his rifle toward the outlaws. Undeterred, the bandits began firing.

As shots rang out, Molly and the other passengers scrambled for cover. Her heart pounded as they crouched behind a large boulder, the sounds of the skirmish echoing around them.

“What do we do now?” Mary’s father asked, his voice laced with fear.

Molly peered around the rock, seeing one outlaw on the ground and the stagecoach driver slumped in his seat. “We need to get help…”

She trailed off as she spotted something in the distance. A cloud of dust moving rapidly toward them. Help, or more trouble?

As the riders drew closer, Molly’s eyes widened. If she weren’t mistaken, leading the group was a familiar face. The very man she’d hoped to avoid.

The stranger from Bozeman thundered toward them, leading a group of riders. As they approached, Molly could make out his features. He had the same rugged jawline and piercing eyes as the man at the train station.

“Stay down!” His voice carried over the chaos.

Molly watched, torn between relief and frustration, as the newcomers engaged the bandits. The air filled with gunshots and shouts, dust swirling around the scene.

The man from Bozeman may become her unlikely savior.

“Who is that man?” Mary’s mother whispered, clutching her daughter close.

Molly shook her head, her eyes never leaving the action. “Someone I’d hoped never to see again,” she muttered.

The skirmish was intense but brief. Within minutes, the outlaws were subdued, their weapons tossed aside as they raised their hands in surrender.

When the dust settled, the stranger dismounted and strode toward their hiding spot. Molly steeled herself, stepping out from behind the boulder.

“Figure the odds,” he drawled, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Seems like trouble follows you, Miss…?”

“Molly,” she replied curtly. “Molly O’Sullivan. And I had everything under control.”

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over the stagecoach guard and the shaken passengers. “Clearly.”

Before she could retort, Mary tugged at her skirt. “Miss Molly, are we safe now?”

Molly softened, kneeling down to the child’s level. “Yes, Mary. We’re safe now.”

The stranger’s expression changed, a flicker of something crossing his face. He held out his hand to a short, portly male passenger.

“Name’s Elijah Beckett.”

“Gus Thornton.” He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief before stuffing it into a pocket.

“I’m Michael Crane,” Mary’s father said, shaking Elijah’s hand. “This is my wife, Marla, and daughter, Mary. I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Beckett. You saved all of us.”

“No thanks necessary.” Elijah looked back at the stage. “It appears you folks could use a ride into town. One of us will sit up top and drive the stage. Let’s get you back in the coach.”

As the passengers gathered their scattered belongings, Molly found herself stealing glances at Elijah. There was something about him. To her disgust, she found herself both intrigued and annoyed.