His fingers tensed on the steering wheel. “How far are we from Doc’s place?”
“I’m not sure.” This narrow, winding road followed a small creek, and one curve looked much like another. “I think it’s just around the next bend.”
He was still driving slowly. His headlights slashed through the trunks of pine trees into the forest. She caught a glimpse of something moving and pointed. “There.”
Gunfire rang out. Three shots. The windshield cracked.
Brady hit the brakes. Petra tore off her seat belt and ducked. From the backseat, the baby jolted awake and started wailing.
“Drive away,” Brady shouted as he jumped from the car.
He ran into the forest, charging directly into harm’s way. His white shirt contrasted with the trees and the brush at the edge of the road. His black suit faded into the night, but that gleaming shirt was a target for the gunman.
She wanted to go after him and provide the kind of backup he’d need in facing an armed-and-dangerous suspect. But her first concern was protecting the infant.
Petra scrambled over the center console and got behind the wheel. There were two bullet holes in the windshield. The shooter hadn’t been kidding around. He wanted them dead.
More gunshots split the air. She heard a high-pitched scream. Where was Cole? Where were the other deputies?
There wasn’t room on the road to turn around, so she flipped the SUV into Reverse. As she backed up, her headlights lit up the scene that played out in front of her. She braked to a stop and took her gun from the holster.
Brady was facing a gunman who held a woman carelessly around her waist. Her hands were fastened behind her back, and she was yelling in Spanish. Ayudame. Help me.
Both men dodged behind tree trunks. Even though Brady was returning gunfire shot for shot, she knew he wasn’t taking aim. He wouldn’t risk hitting the hostage. Nor would she.
But Petra might provide a distraction. She buzzed down her window and fired her weapon into the air.
The gunman swung toward her. With his arm outstretched, he aimed at the SUV and fired. Bullets smacked against the hood. In the backseat behind her, the baby continued to cry.
She ducked, barely peeking over the dashboard, and she saw Brady make his move. With one running step, he mounted a rock that was the size of an ottoman. Using that height, he launched himself through the air toward the gunman. It was the boldest, bravest, stupidest thing she’d ever seen in her life. But it worked. Brady knocked the gunman off his feet.
Her breath caught in her throat. The two men struggled on the ground amid the brush. She couldn’t tell what was happening. Desperately, she wanted to help, to leave the SUV and go to Brady’s aid.
Another vehicle rumbled toward her. She recognized her truck. Cole was coming back toward them from Doc’s house.
In the glow of her headlights, she saw Brady stagger to his feet. He held the woman against his chest. His gun was aimed at the suspect on the ground.
Relief washed through her. And pride. Brady might think of himself as someone who would never break the rules, but she was pretty sure that his diving leap at an armed suspect wasn’t standard FBI procedure. He’d taken a risk, a big one.
She wriggled in her seat, wanting to rush toward him. But she knew the protocol. Until she was one-hundred-percent sure it was safe, she needed to stay in the car with the baby whose cries had faded to a whimper.
With gun drawn, Cole went toward Brady and the woman. They talked for a moment. Cole took custody of the suspect on the ground. Brady freed the ties that bound the woman’s hands behind her back and helped her toward the SUV.
Leaning on Brady’s arm, the dark-haired woman limped forward. She had bandages on both forearms. Her clothes were spattered with blood, bruises marred her face and her long dark hair hung in a tangled mass. Still, she dragged herself toward her baby.
Petra got out of the SUV and opened the back door. In seconds, she freed the baby from the carrier. Holding the tiny bundle, she went toward Brady and the mother whose arms were raised, reaching desperately.
When Petra handed her the child, the woman gasped. She sank to her knees on the ground, cradling her infant to her breast. She rocked back and forth, holding him and quietly sobbing.
Before Petra could compliment Brady on his rescue, he said, “She told me there were only two men. The guy in custody and Escher who we already know is dead. Ask her again. I need to be sure.”
Petra hunkered down beside the woman. “He’s all right. Your baby is all right.”
Her exhausted eyes sought Petra’s face. “Mijo es bueno.”
“Si, muy bueno.” She smiled and gently rested her hand on the woman’s trembling shoulders. “What’s his name? ¿Cómo se llamo?”
“Miguel.”
“And your name?”
“Consuela.”
In Spanish, Petra asked if there were any other bad guys. Consuela replied that there were only the two, and Escher wasn’t a bad man. He had tried to help her and to save Miguel.
Petra rose and faced Brady. “She says it was just the two of them.”
“I’ll take her word for it.”
She heard police sirens approaching and glanced toward Cole. He had the suspect sitting on the ground with his hands cuffed behind his back. “What about Doc and the deputy? Are they okay?”
“Cole entered the clinic and found them both tied up. The deputy had been knocked unconscious. Doc is taking care of him.”
“I’m surprised this guy didn’t kill them.”
“He’s not stupid enough to kill a deputy.”
Through the trees, she saw the red and blue lights of an approaching ambulance and a police vehicle. As soon as they all arrived, regular police procedure would take over, and she’d be shunted out of the way.
She’d probably never see Brady Masters again, which shouldn’t have bothered her. The uptight fed wasn’t her type. If they spent more time in each other’s company, they’d surely drive each other crazy. Still, she felt a twinge of regret…and a bit of curiosity.
“I have a question, Brady. How did you know I’m afraid of fire?”
“Are you asking me to give away my profiler secrets?”
“I am.”
He took her elbow and pulled her aside, creating a bubble of privacy as the ambulance parked. He leaned close. His gaze rested gently on her face, and his voice was just above a whisper as he confided, “When we were at the clinic, you blew out the candle before you left the room. Since you’re a rule-breaker, that precaution seemed out of character, unless you have a fear of fire.”
“Very observant.” When she smiled at him, he did the same, and she noticed a dimple on the left side of his mouth. “And how did you know I’m from San Francisco?”
“That was easy. There’s a beat-up orange-and-black Giants baseball cap on the file cabinet nearest your desk.”
“Of course,” she said. “I wear it so often I don’t even notice it anymore.”
“I noticed a lot about you, Petra.” As an SUV with the Grand County sheriff’s logo on the side parked behind the ambulance, he stepped away from her. “I might need to contact you again. I have some questions of my own.”
“You know where to find me.”
He strode toward the other officers and the paramedics who were helping the mother and baby. Immediately, Brady took charge, issuing orders that nobody seemed to question.
She wondered if they’d meet again. They seemed to connect on some level. Would he contact her?
She hoped so.
* * *
FOUR DAYS LATER, IT WAS Petra’s day off, and she was still in bed at half past ten. She didn’t want to get up and end a marathon of dreams about Brady.
Dreams were important to her. Whether they represented fears that bubbled up from the unconscious or were prescient whisperings from magical beings, dreams had a meaning. Why had Brady become the star player in her nighttime dramas? She rolled onto her back, kicked off the
forest green comforter and stared up at the ceiling as she considered.
Most of her Brady dreams were as obvious as a twelve-foot-tall neon sign. They involved kissing and caressing and Brady with his necktie hanging loose and his white shirt unbuttoned. His chest heaved with desire as he stalked toward her, grabbed her and dominated her. Oh, yeah, she knew exactly what those dreams were telling her. I need a lover.
The last time she had a serious boyfriend was almost a year ago which wasn’t surprising because, as a rule, midwives don’t come into contact with a lot of eligible men. Any halfway decent guy—even an arrogant, obsessively neat fed—was enough to get her motor revving.
But these weren’t all sexy dreams. In another, she saw him with a baby in his arms. That was how they met, and she might be replaying that moment. But was there another interpretation? Something about fertility? She was twenty-nine and not getting any younger. Because Brady appeared to be a fine healthy sperm donor, he might represent her desire to have a baby of her own.
An old, familiar ache tightened around her heart. Her chances of conceiving a baby were slim to none. Those dreams were unlikely to come true.
She dragged herself out of bed and padded barefoot down the hall to the kitchen where she got the coffeemaker started. Yesterday, she’d been with a mom who was in labor for six hours before she delivered a gorgeous baby girl, seven pounds, six ounces. Petra felt the need to stretch her legs. This would be a good day for a run.
After she washed up and pulled her hair into a high ponytail, she slipped into a pair of shorts and a yellow-and-red Bob Marley T-shirt. With her coffee mug in hand, she went out the back door onto the patio behind the two-bedroom, frame house she was renting. The morning sun warmed her face as she sat on top of the redwood picnic table with her running shoes on the attached bench. From this vantage point, she surveyed the remnants of her vegetable garden. In spite of the early frost in August, she still had zucchini.
Maybe she’d bake zucchini bread and take a loaf to the parents of the new baby. They were a terrific couple, and she had no doubt that this was another family where she’d always be welcomed as Aunt Petra. That kind of friendship was a satisfying feeling, a great feeling. But was it really what she wanted in life?
Staring into her coffee mug, she wondered. She loved being a midwife and appreciated the simple pleasures of baking and gardening, but the action-packed hour she’d spent with Brady reminded her of her time at Quantico. While training to be an FBI agent, she’d scored high on marksmanship, kicked ass on the Yellow Brick Road obstacle course and was at the head of her class. She missed the adrenaline rush.
“Petra?”
She turned her head and saw him. “Brady, where did you come from?”
“I’ve been knocking on your front door.”
He sauntered around the corner of her house and stepped onto the patio. His cargo pants and black T-shirt made a very different impression from the first time she met him—so different that she wasn’t sure he was real. This version of Brady was more like the sexy guy she’d been dreaming about. He looked fit and strong. His uncombed hair seemed to be a lighter shade of blond. He had a few days’ growth of stubble on his chin.
This version of Brady was hot, hot, hot. Looking at him made her heart pump faster. It took an effort to keep the mug from trembling in her hands. “Would you like some coffee?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
She climbed off the picnic table and went through the back door into the kitchen. For Brady’s coffee, she chose a handmade mug with a blue-and-green glaze. She turned toward him. “Cream or sugar?”
“I take my coffee plain and hot.”
“Like your women?” She’d blurted the comment without thinking. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be inappropriate. It’s just that you look different without your black suit.”
“I’m going undercover.”
She poured his coffee and handed the mug to him. “That’s not a typical assignment for a profiler.”
“It’s only my second time,” he said as he took his coffee to the small table in the kitchen and sat. “One of the reasons I came here was to tell you what happened to Consuela and Miguel. You deserve to know.”
“I appreciate that.” She’d been worried about the mother and baby.
“You understand that this is FBI business, and you can’t talk about it.”
“Yes, sir.” She gave him a mocking salute.
“Consuela’s story started in Mexico. She wanted to be with her husband for the birth of their first child, and she paid a coyote to take her to where her husband was working on a construction crew outside Las Vegas. She never got there. Instead, she fell into the hands of a human trafficking gang.”
She winced as though she’d been slapped. Human trafficking was the modern equivalent of slavery. These people were used and abused until the marrow had been sucked from their bones and there was nothing left. When death came, it was a mercy. “That’s what you’ve been investigating.”
“The FBI has a task force in the field. I’ve been working with them for eight months. I thought I was done, but I’ve got to follow up on what I learned from Consuela.”
Petra sat at the small table opposite Brady. “What did she tell you?”
“She gave birth to Miguel in the back of a semi. The other women helped her, and they managed to keep the baby a secret for a while. Two of them were also pregnant.”
“I thought most girls picked up by traffickers were forced into prostitution. Pregnant women wouldn’t do them much good.” The truth hit her. “Oh, my God, they want the babies.”
He gave a terse nod. “One of the men in charge of Consuela’s group figured that out. His name was Escher. He’d been a coyote for years, but the idea of stealing babies and dumping them into a horrible and uncertain future was too much, even for him. He called me.”
“He was your informant.”
“Consuela said that he tried to free them all. He didn’t really think they had much chance and told her to leave Miguel behind. Escher promised to protect the infant.”
“By running away, she thought she was saving her son,” Petra said.
“Instead, Escher was killed. His partner—the suspect we arrested—tried to find the others, but they were gone, everyone but Consuela who stayed behind to find her baby.”
“And now?” she asked. “What’s going to happen to Consuela and Miguel?”
“They’re reunited with her husband and in protective custody. We need her testimony to convict our suspect. After that, I’m not sure what will happen with immigration. At least, their family is together. They’re all healthy and safe.”
It wasn’t a perfect happy ending, but the fate of Consuela and Miguel wasn’t as terrible as it might have been. They’d escaped. How many others wouldn’t make it?
Unable to sit still, she rose from the table and paced across her kitchen to the counter where she poured herself another cup of coffee. She didn’t need the caffeine. Her blood surged. She was fired up.
This type of injustice was why she’d wanted to be in the FBI. When Brady did his analysis of her, he said she always fought for the underdog. So true. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“There is,” he said. “I told you I was going undercover to investigate the trafficking in babies. And I could use your help.”
“Anything,” she said.
“Will you be my wife?”
Chapter Four
Needless to say, Brady was one-hundred-and-ten-percent serious about his investigation. Enlisting Petra’s help wasn’t something he took lightly. Still, he hadn’t been able to resist teasing her.
Her reaction was huge. Her eyebrows flew up to her hairline. A pink flush dappled her cheeks as she gaped at him, slack-jawed. She stammered, “You w-w-w-want me to do what?”
“Be my wife.” He leaned back in his chair and calmly sipped his coffee, enjoying the show. “I’m sure it’s not the first time someone has asked.”<
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“Well, no. Not that it’s any of your business.” She braced herself against the kitchen counter. “I need an explanation.”
“Being my wife? I think you know what that means—a white picket fence, a couple of kids and a dog ’til death do us part. Love, honor and obey, especially obey…”
“I’ll obey you when hell freezes over.”
“We can tinker with the vows. I’m flexible.”
“You can go…flex yourself.” She stalked to the back door. “I’m out of here.”
The screen door slammed behind her with a final sounding slap. Apparently, Petra didn’t respond well to teasing. He’d known she was the sensitive type, but he hadn’t expected her to get so upset. Had he accidentally pinched a nerve? She was twenty-nine years old. Marriage might be a hot-button issue.
He rose slowly from the table, disappointed that he wouldn’t be seeing more of Petra Jamison but glad that he’d found out now that they couldn’t work together. Damn, she was touchy. If she’d thrown a hissy while they were in the middle of their undercover assignment, the consequences would be bad.
When he stepped outside into the crisp fall sunlight, she was waiting for him with her fists stuck on her slim hips. “You said you needed my help. I want to know more.”
The smart move was to keep walking, to move away from her. “This isn’t your problem.”
She stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Wait up, Brady. I know you were teasing.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Give me another chance.” She swallowed hard. “I might have overreacted.”
He figured that was the closest thing to an apology he was going to get. If she could stay cool, she was the perfect person for the undercover job. He reached into one of the pockets in his cargo pants, took out a photograph and handed it to her. “Do you remember this?”
“It’s the blanket that was wrapped around Miguel. With the sheep design and the blood and the logo for Lost Lamb Ranch.”
“Lost Lamb Ranch was the destination for Consuela and the other pregnant women. We think it’s some kind of clearing house for baby trafficking.”
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