I could see Bram formulating our chance of survival. Returning to my seat, I said, “Think about it. Sending one rider to get us rescued could result in his or her death, and we’d be in the same situation. Staying put and hoping someone will eventually miss us would guarantee Angie’s death . . .” And possibly Cookie’s. The words formed in my brain. “Plus, the killer could flush us out by setting the lodge on fire, then pick us off at his leisure, or just keep shooting out the windows until we’re out of ways to block them. With this plan, we might have two chances out of three that a rider could get help.”

“Who would leave? And who would stay?” Bram finally asked.

“Cookie, you and Angie would stay,” I said. “Someone would have to stay with you.”

Cookie took in a sharp breath as if to say something, then rolled her lips.

“Cookie?” I asked.

She just shook her head.

“I think you and Wyatt should be riders,” I said to Bram.

“What about the third?” Cookie asked.

I sat still, but my thoughts were racing. The three women from Poland were unlikely to know the area and even less likely to be expert horsewomen. I didn’t trust Liam. For a time after he returned to Mule Shoe, he could have been running around with a rock and a knife. Even if he was innocent, he was full of beer. Would he be in any condition to make the difficult journey? I didn’t even know if he could ride a horse. Maybe he only knew how to drive a wagon. Roy was easily in his eighties, although tough as nails, but I had my doubts about him as well. That left the art students. They wanted to leave, but that didn’t mean they’d want to become targets for a killer.

So. Me. At one time I could ride any horse anywhere—but I’d also had two legs. I could feel the horse, grip it with my leg muscles, guide it with my heels. I could hang off a galloping horse’s side and grab things off the ground. I was fearless. If I got thrown, I’d get back up.

But I hadn’t been on a horse’s back until I’d ridden the Belgian earlier today—which was like sitting on a kitchen table—and we’d walked down off the mountain.

I reached into my pocket and took out the three small stones.

No one would think poorly of me if I stayed. In fact, Bram and Roy would expect it. I was, after all, racked with PTSD and partially disabled. And I didn’t want to get shot. Coward.

I placed the stones in a line on the table. Scott had given me three rocks. Ugly, lumpy, heavy. Weighing me down.

Cookie studied my face, then quietly stood and moved back to the lobby.