She worked the latch and crossed the threshold and was standing just inside the doorway when her assailant made his move. Molly tried to swerve and push herself out of harm’s way but could not avoid the gun butt. It struck the side of her head, her right temple received a glancing blow. Stars exploded before her eyes, a lightning bolt of white-hot pain crackled inside her skull. Molly groaned and stumbled to the side, crashed into a table, sent an assortment of tinware cups and plates clattering to the floor, then knocked over a chair as she tried to break her fall. She fumbled for the pocket pistol tucked in the wide leather belt circling her waist, her hands clawed beneath the folds of her great cloak as she tried for the gun with her fading strength. “No, you don’t,” said a familiar voice. Even injured and near unconscious, she recognized Cassius Fargo. But then she had made a point of studying this one, sensing the harm he meant to the man she loved. Fargo read her actions, growled, and darted toward her.
