Page 4 of Wild Spirit Revival

“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.”

---