Page 6 of Wild Spirit Revival

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.

Chapter Three

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.

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