Midwife Cover - Cassie Miles

by Intrigue Romance

  By the time Brady got off the phone, they were well on their way, cruising on a paved, two-lane highway with wide shoulders. Petra drove five to ten miles over the speed limit, but he wasn’t complaining. The weather was good, and the traffic was light. He settled back for a long drive—over three hundred miles crossing the Continental Divide and descending approximately a thousand feet in elevation. Near Durango, the average temperature would be nine to twelve degrees warmer, and the aspen leaves were just beginning to turn gold.

  He leaned back against his seat. “I like a good road trip.”

  “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “Texas.”

  “I thought I heard a bit of a drawl in your voice. Where in Texas?”

  “Austin.” He hesitated before saying more. “Cole told me that we should integrate as much of our real life as possible into our undercover identity. It’s easier to remember.”

  “Is Brady Gilliam from Austin?”

  He nodded. “Like me, he has a younger brother and a twin sister. My real twin, Barbara, is in the FBI, based in Manhattan. I think I’ll have my undercover twin also live in New York City, but I’ll say she’s a schoolteacher.”

  Her window was down, and the breeze whipped through her long auburn hair. She used a paisley scarf as a headband, and the long ends draped over her shoulder. In her circle-shaped sunglasses, white muslin blouse and loose-fitting patterned trousers, she looked like a free spirit—not the type of woman he spent time with, much less married.

  “When I was growing up,” she said, “I wanted a twin. Somebody who was always on my side.”

  “Yeah, that’s how it works in the movies.”

  “You sound bitter.”

  “Not anymore.”

  He’d made his peace with his miserable childhood. Staring through the windshield, he watched the rise and fall of rolling hills of dry, khaki-colored grasses. No longer did he waste time hating his alcoholic, abusive father—a man who came in and out of his life when the mood suited him. Long ago, Brady had given up trying to understand why his mother stayed loyal to the man she’d married at the expense of her children.

  He still had the scars from the last time his father had given him a whipping. He’d just turned twelve and was almost as tall as his dad but half his size. After the old man beat him, he’d gone after Barbara. That had been when Brady fought back. His rage had given him the strength of a grown man. Every time he was knocked down, he’d gotten back up and fought even harder. His father left with a broken nose and never came back.

  This horror story wasn’t something he’d share with Petra. It was better to let her think that he and Barbara were the idyllic image of twins in matching colors.

  He cleared his throat. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

  “Probably six hours.”

  “There are two things we need to accomplish.” He brushed away the past and concentrated on a positive, rational agenda. “Number one, I should brief you on what to expect at the Lost Lamb Ranch. Number two, we’ll firm up our undercover identities.”

  “Let’s start with what Cole told you,” she said. “You just got off the phone with him, right?”

  He nodded. “He’s sending me mug shots for the missing women in an email. We should both memorize the pictures.”

  “What did the police find when they investigated?”

  “No leads.”

  “That’s hard to believe. The disappearance of a pregnant woman is usually a high-priority, high-profile case.”

  “Not for these women,” Brady said. “They weren’t beloved daughters or wives. They were homeless. Nobody organized a neighborhood search party to find them.”

  “But somebody noticed. Somebody reported them missing.”

  “Drug addict friends who, needless to say, didn’t do much to cooperate with the authorities. It’s entirely possible that these women took off for a couple of days and then showed up and nobody bothered to tell the police. Or they moved to another city.”

  Darkly, she said, “Or they fell into the hands of traffickers who wanted them and their babies.”

  “They prey on the homeless, the helpless. Pregnant women are an easy target. They’re already vulnerable and scared. If somebody offered them a place to stay until they deliver their babies—a place like Lost Lamb Ranch—they’d jump at it.”

  “Tell me about the Lost Lamb.”

  “It’s run by Francine Kelso, a woman in her forties who has a record as a hooker and was suspected of being a madam. She doesn’t hide her past. Instead, she points to it with pride and claims to have turned over a new leaf.”

  Petra nodded. “She’s operating out of the same playbook that we’re using.”

  “How so?”

  “You just told me to use parts of my real past to establish my undercover identity.” She toyed with the pink crystal that hung from a silver chain around her neck. “That’s what Francine is doing, using her real past to disguise what she’s doing in the present.”

  He appreciated how perceptive Petra was. Her insights seemed to come from an intuitive sense. “You’re good at reading people.”

  “In my line of work, it helps to understand where somebody is coming from.”

  “How so?”

  “When a woman goes into labor, all her defenses are down. The same goes for the husband. While some people respond to a firm tone of voice and detailed instructions, others need gentle coaxing. Everybody’s different. One time, I delivered a baby for a couple who started in a pastel room doing deep breathing and playing soft classical music. By the time the mother was ready to push, they’d changed the tape to ‘Welcome to Hell.’ Both of them cursed like gangsters.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I sang along.” She laughed. “It was one of those times when I was glad to be doing a home birth. We were so loud that we would have freaked out the entire wing of a hospital. After the baby was born, the mom and dad went back to mellow.”

  The behavior sounded psychotic to him. “Did those parents often exhibit excessive rage?”

  “Who talks like that? Exhibit excessive rage?” She took off her sunglasses so he could see her roll her eyes. “Never try to psychoanalyze a woman in labor. It’s way too primal. And, by the way, these two are kind, loving, wonderful parents.”

  Brady was glad they had a long drive ahead of them. It was going to take him a while to get a handle on his partner. “Let’s get back to Francine Kelso. Assuming the Lost Lamb Ranch is a kind of holding pen for these pregnant women, Francine is the warden. She keeps tabs on what’s going on.”

  “How many people are at the ranch?”

  “Francine’s assistant is Margaret Woods, twenty-three years old, the mother of a three-year-old boy named Wesley. She does most of the housekeeping and shopping. There are four or five men, supposedly ranch hands who take care of the livestock.”

  “Hold on,” she said. “Is this a working ranch?”

  “Not really. They have horses, goats and chickens. And there’s a garden.”

  Her expression turned pensive. “Lost Lamb sounds like it could be a great place for a woman in her last months of pregnancy. Very organic and relaxed. It’s exactly the kind of place where I’d like to work.”

  “If it wasn’t a front for crime.”

  In his years with the FBI, he’d learned not to judge a situation by its appearance. There were drug bosses who lived in beautiful palaces. A cat burglar might be surrounded by artistic masterpieces. There were handsome, charming con men who stole every penny from a pension fund and bankrupted widows and children.

  Brady relied on his rational judgment to see past the exterior to the rotten core. His tendency was to expect the worst in others. That way he was never disappointed.

  “How many expectant mothers?” she asked.

  “Right now, there are five. All of them have proper identification and have signed documents for the immediate adoption of the babies. The paperwork is handled by an attor
ney in Durango, Stan Mancuso. He’s somebody we need to investigate.”

  “What about the local sheriff and cops?”

  “There’s no reason to believe they’re corrupt, but we can’t look to them for assistance. We’re undercover,” he said. “It’s just you and me, baby.”

  * * *

  AFTER A LONG DAY OF driving, Petra took her last shift in the passenger seat. While sucking the pulp out of an orange, she studied the Lost Lamb file on Brady’s laptop. Aerial photos of the ranch showed a main house, two barracks that probably served as bunkhouses, a garage and a horse barn with a corral. The large garden plot was bordered by a narrow stream. The whole property butted up to a forested hillside.

  She didn’t see fences or blockades to prevent the expectant mothers from escaping. Nor was the property isolated; other houses were less than five miles away. Anyone who wanted to escape from the ranch probably could. It didn’t seem like these women were being held against their will. Was it possible that the ranch was what it claimed to be? A sanctuary for pregnant women with nowhere else to go?

  The lack of evidence was why they needed this elaborate undercover investigation. She remembered the blanket with the logo and the sheep design that had been wrapped around baby Miguel. If there was the slightest chance that Lost Lamb Ranch was involved in trafficking infants, it was worth checking out.

  After studying the mug shots for the missing women again, she closed the computer down and tossed her orange rind in the trash bag Brady placed between the seats. Then she used one of the hand wipes from the package he’d put in the glove compartment.

  She glanced over at him. “We’re almost there. Time to lose the wristwatch, buddy.”

  He slipped it off. “This pains me.”

  “I’m sure it does.” She stashed the watch in the glove compartment next to the hand sanitizer.

  During the drive, they’d been stitching together the fabric of their undercover marriage and had decided that the Gilliams were happy with each other but financially down on their luck, which was why they jumped at the chance to move into a rent-free house in Durango.

  The FBI techs had provided their undercover selves with fake former employers in case anybody bothered to check into their backgrounds. She was supposed to have worked as a midwife and with Berkeley Baby Clinic. When Brady Gilliam wasn’t trying to sell his art, he had a part-time job as a car mechanic.

  She wiggled her butt lower in her seat and elevated her legs, resting her heels on the dashboard. “We never figured out how Brady and Patty Gilliam met.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Brady said. “I saw you in a tavern, told you that you were beautiful and asked you to pose for me in the nude.”

  “Oh, please. Patty has street smarts. No way would she fall for a line like that.”

  “Maybe I invited you to my place to see my artwork.”

  She made gagging noises in the back of her throat. “Even worse.”

  “Okay, Ms. Street Smart, you tell me.”

  In the fading light of sunset, she studied his profile. After a day of driving with the wind coming through the windows, he’d lost all semblance of grooming. His thick hair was longer than she’d thought, especially in the back where it curled at his nape. His stubble outlined his chin. Some men could pull off the unkempt look without appearing grungy, and Brady was one of them. She was hit by a sudden urge to stroke her hand through his rough stubble and then to trace his lips. Bad idea.

  “I’m waiting,” he said. “How did the Gilliams meet?”

  Keeping in mind the rule of sticking to reality, she tried to think of what she found attractive about him. The image that popped into her head was the moment when he launched himself through the air, risking everything to rescue Consuela.

  “Here’s the story,” she said. “I was jogging on the Esplanade in San Francisco at dusk. It was foggy and mysterious and the air smelled like fish. Then, I heard a scream.”

  “Please don’t tell me I’m a screamer.”

  “Not you. A woman had her purse stolen. And you took off in pursuit of the thief. Diving through the air, you tackled the bad guy and got the purse away from him.”

  “Okay.” He nodded. “I’m liking this story.”

  She lifted her feet off the dashboard and sat up straight in her seat. “The thief had a knife and he cut your arm.”

  “Stop right there. I don’t have a scar on my arm.”

  “Where do you have scars?”

  “I blew out my knee playing football. We can say I landed on my knee and the old injury acted up.”

  “And that’s where I come in,” she said. “Because I’m a nurse, I patched you up.”

  “You can do that? I thought midwives just did baby stuff.”

  “I’m a certified nurse-midwife, and also an RN. I’d need that much training to work in California. They have strict licensing procedures.”

  He grinned. “The Gilliams met as crime fighters. Damn, I’m beginning to like this couple.”

  So was she. The idea of being married to him was growing on her. She’d been wondering about sleeping arrangements but figured Brady would have a solution. A man who planned far enough ahead to bring his own brand of bottled water would surely have worked out the details of who slept where.

  For the last leg of the trip, he’d been using the GPS on his cell phone. About twelve miles from Durango, he exited the main road. A road sign indicated they were entering Kirkland. The town was so small that if you blinked, you missed it.

  “I want to swing past the Lost Lamb before it gets dark,” he said.

  “Fine by me.”

  After they’d driven some distance, he consulted the map on his phone. “At the fork in the road, I go left to the Lost Lamb. Our house is to the right.”

  She noticed that he’d said “our house” instead of “the Gilliams’ house.” Their relationship was changing. “Should we start being Patty and Brady Gilliam now?”

  “From now until the investigation is over.”

  “It’s the first time I’ve been married.”

  “Me, too.”

  With her thumb, she rubbed the Celtic knot pattern on her wedding band. “I don’t feel any different.”

  “When you’re married for real,” he said, “you will.”

  He spoke with the absolute confidence that she found annoying. “How do you know for sure?”

  “Logic,” he said.

  “Just because you’re certain, it doesn’t mean you’re right.”

  Daylight was almost gone, and he should have turned on his headlights. She assumed he was trying to be subtle as they neared the ranch. Rounding a curve, she spotted two women walking on the gravel shoulder of the road. “Watch out.”

  “I see them.”

  She noticed that one of the women was pregnant. If she was from Lost Lamb, this was an opportunity for Petra to introduce herself. “Pull over.”

  “Why?”

  “Pull over. Now.”

  He braked, and the red truck came to a sudden stop. Petra hopped out and ran back toward the two women.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “I hope we didn’t scare you.”

  “We’re fine.”

  Petra recognized the not-pregnant woman from a photo in the computer file. This was Margaret Woods, the twenty-three-year-old housekeeper at Lost Lamb. In her jeans and pink hoodie sweatshirt, she looked younger. Nervously, she chewed her lower lip and pushed her straight brown hair out of her eyes.

  With a friendly smile, Petra stuck out her hand. “We’re new in town. I’m Patty Gilliam.”

  Shaking hands, Margaret introduced herself and a pregnant woman with a belly the size of a blimp. Her girth was covered by a truly awful flowered muumuu. “Her name is Deandra but we call her Dee.”

  “Well, Dee,” Petra said, “I’m guessing you’re past your due date. That’s why you’re out for a walk. You’re hoping the physical activity will get your labor started.”

  “Yeah, walking.” Dee
scoffed. Below a curly fringe of blond hair, her face pinched in an angry knot. “Sounds like an old wives’ tale to me.”

  “The thing about old wives is that they know a lot about practical solutions.” Petra liked to try all the noninvasive, natural remedies before resorting to induced labor. “Walking is a good idea because when your hips swing back and forth, it gets things moving. Eating spicy food might also bring on labor. Or having sex.”

  Suspiciously, Margaret asked, “How do you know so much about labor?”

  “I’m a midwife,” Petra announced. “And I’m glad you asked because I’m setting up a practice right here in this area. So if you know any other pregnant wom—”

  “We have to be going,” Margaret interrupted.

  Brady strode toward them. “Ladies, I’m so sorry if my driving startled you.”

  Petra introduced him as her husband—a fact that was largely ignored by both of these young women who responded immediately to his very masculine presence. Brady was fresh meat, and these ladies were starving.

  “So glad,” Margaret said breathily, “to meet you.”

  “I should have turned my headlights on,” Brady said. “But I was admiring the shadows and the fading light on the tree branches. I’m an artist.”

  His two admirers nearly swooned.

  He asked, “Can we give you a lift?”

  Margaret retreated to her cautious attitude. “No, thanks. We’re almost home.”

  Dee gave a little gasp and looked down. The gravel beneath her sneakers was wet.

  “Congratulations,” Petra said. “Your water broke.”

  Chapter Six

  Never in his life had Brady felt so helpless. He would have preferred facing a dozen Mafia hitmen to being stranded on a country road with a pregnant woman about to go into labor. His natural inclination was to hide behind his badge of authority—to whip out his cell phone, call for an ambulance and start giving orders. But that behavior didn’t suit his undercover identity as a laid-back artist.

  He shot a panicked glance toward Petra. Why the hell had she jumped out of the truck with no plan in mind?