“Not to worry,” Petra said as she wrapped her arm around Dee’s shoulder. “Sometimes it takes a day or even longer after the water breaks for labor to start. Have you been having contractions?”
“I don’t know. What’s it supposed to feel like?”
“Everybody’s different. A contraction might be a sharp pain or just a cramp.”
“Cramps. Yes.” Dee’s voice went shrill. “I have cramps. Oh, my God, the baby’s coming.”
“Calm down,” Margaret snapped. “You’d think you were the first woman to ever give birth.”
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Petra said as she pointed Dee toward the truck. “The first thing is to take you home so you can change clothes and get comfortable. Come along with me. I’ll drive you there.”
Legs apart, Dee waddled along beside her. “I want drugs. None of this natural childbirth crud. Lots of drugs.”
Margaret bounded around them like a yappy little terrier. “Leave us alone. She’ll be fine. I can take care of her.”
“I’m sure you can,” Petra said calmly, “but Dee’s comfort is the most important thing. How far are we from where you live?”
“Half a mile.”
“The truck has only two seats, so I’ll drive there with Dee. You and Brady can walk. Right, Brady?”
This was his cue to speak, and he managed to gurgle out an affirmative response. This impromptu turn of events was actually to their advantage; taking Dee home gave them a believable reason to gain entrance to Lost Lamb. But they were so damn disorganized.
He fell into step with Margaret who was walking as fast as her short, little legs could carry her. “I’m in so much trouble,” she said. “Miss Francine doesn’t like for us to get involved with the locals.”
“Relax,” he advised, though his heart was racing. “This is an emergency.”
“Not really. Dee is a big fat cow who is going to be in labor for hours after this, and she’ll be whining and sobbing. Some women just aren’t good at having babies.”
“My wife could help her.” It was strangely comforting to refer to Petra as his wife. “She’s good at what she does.”
Down the road, he saw the taillights of the truck turn right. Beside him, Margaret groaned. “So much trouble.”
As an FBI agent, he wouldn’t be friendly or approachable, but Brady Gilliam was more casual. He patted Margaret’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”
Her frightened brown eyes searched his face. “Really?”
“You seem like a real sweet girl who was just helping her pregnant friend. Who could be mad about that?”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “You have no idea.”
“Tell me,” he urged. “Margaret, you can tell me anything.”
Instead of confiding, she picked up her heels and took off like a jackrabbit, dashing toward the open gate where the truck had turned. He hoped he hadn’t spooked her. The nervous, little housekeeper could be a good source of information about the operation at Lost Lamb.
* * *
PETRA PARKED THE TRUCK close to the veranda that stretched across the front of the main house. The aerial photos of the Lost Lamb compound had been accurate, showing the two-story, white house with a horse barn to the left and outbuildings at the rear. But the view from above didn’t capture the atmosphere.
This should have been a homey place—a ranch house where the family would gather in rocking chairs and talk about their day. Instead, there was an impersonal, institutional air as though no one lived here long enough to put down roots. A metal sign—Lost Lamb Ranch—hung from the railing on the covered veranda that stretched all the way across the front of the house. Another sign posted by the door advised No Smoking.
The veranda was tidy, recently swept. Three steps led to the door. Beside them was a long, plywood wheelchair ramp. Dim lights shone through the windows on the first floor, but the upstairs was dark and foreboding.
A pregnant woman in jeans and a tight yellow T-shirt rose from a rocking chair and stood at the railing watching. The corners of her mouth pulled down in an exaggerated scowl. “What’s going on?”
“Hi, there.” Petra waved. Then she opened the passenger door for Dee and helped her out of the truck. “I found this lady on the road. Her water broke.”
“About time.” The pregnant woman went to the front door, opened it and yelled. “Miss Francine, it’s Dee. She’s in labor.”
As soon as Dee got out, she flung her arm around Petra’s neck and hung on her like a pregnant sandbag. She gave a loud, exaggerated moan. “I’m in pain. I need drugs.”
Petra was grateful that the women she usually worked with were positive, upbeat and motivated to have natural childbirth. Someone like Dee needed to be handled like a diva with lavish attention and gobs of compliments.
Looking into Dee’s squinty eyes, Petra smiled warmly. “You’re so brave.”
“I am?”
“Oh, yes, you have inner strength. I can see it. You’re glowing with it.”
“I’m glowing?”
“There’s nothing more beautiful in the world than a pregnant woman.”
“Me? Beautiful?”
The front door opened and Francine Kelso appeared. She was a dramatic presence. Her shining, shoulder-length black curls were too perfectly coiffed to be anything but a wig, and her elaborate black eyeliner evoked images of Cleopatra. She wore black leggings and jeweled sandals. Even though she was slim, her cleavage spilled over the bedazzled edge of her low-cut, turquoise top. Her dossier said she was a former hooker/madam. It didn’t take much imagination to see her as a dominatrix.
From the veranda, she glared down at Petra. “Who the hell are you?”
“Patty Gilliam. My husband and I just moved to the area. We almost ran into Dee and Margaret on the road, so we stopped to see if they were all right. It’s lucky we came along. Dee’s water broke.”
“I’m in labor,” Dee wailed. “I need a doctor.”
This was the opening Petra had been hoping for. “I’m not sure if it’s time to call the OB-GYN, but I’d be happy to stay and help out until you decide what to do. I’m a certified nurse-midwife.”
“That’s handy,” Francine said coolly.
Petra nodded toward the sign that hung from the railing. “Lost Lamb Ranch? Because you have two very pregnant ladies here, I’m guessing you’re not sheep herders.”
“This is a home for unwed mothers.”
Instead of inviting them in or rushing to take care of Dee, Francine blocked their way like a sentry, which made Petra aware of the secrets she was guarding.
Dee sagged against her, and Petra had to exert an effort to stay standing. She took a step forward. This was her excuse to get inside the house and have a look around. “We need to get Dee out of these wet clothes.”
From behind her back, she heard Margaret cry out. “I’ve got her. I’ll take it from here.”
“I’m weak,” Dee moaned. “I’m going to faint.”
Margaret, who was out of breath from running, grabbed Dee’s other arm just in time. Even with both of them holding her, the pregnant woman was slipping from their grasp as she fainted.
In a bit of perfect timing, Brady came to the rescue. He caught Dee under her knees and around her shoulders. With an effort, he lifted her.
“My husband, Brady,” Petra said to Francine. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Francine Kelso. I’m in charge here.”
“Great,” Brady said. “Where should I put this lady?”
“Drop her on the porch,” Margaret snapped. “She’s faking.”
Even though Petra agreed that Dee’s swoon probably wasn’t the real thing, she was determined to get inside. She climbed the stairs and confronted Francine directly. “I’m sure you have the proper facilities. Brady should carry Dee to your clinic or birthing room where she can be examined.”
Francine’s gaze held a full measure of hostility, but there was also calculation
in her heavily made-up eyes. Lost Lamb had a reputation to protect. She couldn’t have Petra and Brady telling people that she wasn’t treating these young women well.
“Follow me.” She pivoted and entered the house.
Petra held the door for Brady who carried his heavy burden without too much effort. As he trailed Francine down a carpeted hallway, he glanced to the right and nodded to another pregnant woman who sprawled across a sofa in a living room area, furnished with unremarkable sofas and chairs in various shades of beige and brown.
To the left of the front foyer and staircase, Petra glimpsed an office with a gorgeous Aubusson rug, an antique cherry desk and a credenza with fresh flowers. She guessed that the left was Francine’s side of the house, and it was furnished with far more care and expense than the area used by the other denizens of this institution. The hallway led past a dining area with a long table and into an institutional kitchen where two Hispanic women—one pregnant and the other not—were washing dishes.
With each woman she encountered, Petra studied their features, comparing them to the mug shots from the Missing Persons files. None matched. All these women were young. Some appeared to be nervous, and others were hostile.
“Move along,” Margaret said brusquely. “And don’t stare.”
“I’m not,” Petra said.
“You’re judging them. Everybody who comes here does. They think bad things about these girls because they got pregnant.”
Petra stopped short at the edge of the kitchen. She should have kept going, trying to get on the good side of Francine, but she couldn’t let this accusation go unanswered. “I’d never look down on another woman because she was pregnant. Having a baby is the highest calling in life. Even after delivering dozens of babies, I’m still amazed. A pregnant woman is a miracle.”
Margaret pulled her bangs off her forehead and stared. For an instant, the anger in her eyes softened. “You’re telling the truth.”
“I don’t lie,” Petra said. “It’s bad karma.”
“We shouldn’t keep Francine waiting.”
Beyond the kitchen was an examination room that was large, white and sterile. Stacked on one of the stainless steel countertops were several of the yellow blankets with the lamb design. Brady had placed Dee on the table with stirrups, and Francine was talking on a cell phone.
Instead of lying down, Dee had wakened enough to loudly complain. “I want a bath. And new clothes. I don’t want to be here.”
Gently, Petra brushed Brady out of the way and stood in front of Dee. She piled on the attention. “Are you all right? We were concerned when you fainted.”
“You’re right to worry.” Dee pouted. “I’m very delicate.”
“Like a cow,” Margaret muttered under her breath.
With a glance toward Francine who was still on her cell phone, Petra decided to take action. If she asked for permission, she would surely be refused. Instead, she took the blood pressure cuff from the countertop and wrapped it around Dee’s upper arm. “Let’s make sure you’re all right. The mother’s well-being is vital to a successful birth.”
“I just want this thing out of me.”
That thing is a baby. Even though Petra was beginning to agree with the way Margaret felt about Dee, she held back her irritation and focused on the task at hand. Using a stethoscope, she took a blood pressure reading. “You’re one-fifty-five over ninety. It’s a little high.”
Dee grasped her hand and squeezed hard. “I’m going to be okay, aren’t I?”
“The elevated blood pressure could indicate hypertension.” She removed the cuff. “But it’s not high enough to worry about for you or for the baby.”
“My baby boy is all right, isn’t he?”
“You know you’re having a son?”
“I’ve known for a long time. Is he okay?”
Her blue eyes opened wide, and Petra saw her fear. Dee wasn’t really an obnoxious, unfeeling diva. She was scared and didn’t seem to be getting much support from the other women in the house.
With utmost gentleness, Petra stroked the blond wisps off Dee’s forehead. “You’re both going to be fine. Giving birth is the most natural thing in the world. You can do this.”
“It’s going to hurt.” Her voice caught on a sob. “I don’t want it to hurt.”
“You are going to feel some pain, but I know a great many techniques to deal with it. What’s your favorite kind of music? Not for dancing but for when you’re alone and relaxed.”
“Show tunes. When I was in high school, I was one of the stars in Oklahoma!” A hint of a smile touched her mouth. “I had a solo number about the gal who couldn’t say no. I guess it came true.”
“I’ll bet you were beautiful on stage.” She pulled Brady into the conversation. “Don’t you think so, honey?”
“Yeah, you must have been pretty.”
It was clear that his attention was elsewhere. He’d positioned himself so his back was to the wall and he faced the doorway where Francine stood. Had he picked up on a threat that Petra had missed? Margaret seemed to have vanished. Did that mean anything?
“Oh, my, Brady.” Dee fluttered her lashes. Apparently, she’d recovered enough to flirt. “Brady, you carried me in here. You’re my hero.”
“No problem,” he said.
“And it will never happen again,” Francine said coldly. She rested her back against the doorjamb, and folded her arms below her breasts. “You girls don’t need to be rescued. You have to learn how to stand on your own two feet.”
There was truth to what she was saying. Self-reliance counted as an important character trait, but Petra was willing to cut Dee some slack. After she had the baby, she could work on improving her character.
Francine turned her gaze on Petra. “You claim to be a midwife.”
“I’m certified, licensed and ready to go,” Petra said. “If you like, I can provide all kinds of references. I’d love to work here at Lost Lamb.”
“You may leave your card.”
Mission accomplished! She’d made contact and would be able to return. After this, the investigation would be easy. “We’re so new in town that I don’t have cards printed up yet. Brady, would you write down our address and phone number?”
“Sure.” He smiled at Francine. “Have you got paper and pencil?”
Unlike Margaret and Dee, Francine wasn’t impressed by his charms. She pulled open a drawer beside the sink and took out a pen and a yellow legal pad which she handed to him. “Why did you move here?”
“My aunt passed away a couple of years ago and left her cabin to me. It’s been rented out, and that gave us some income. But the renters moved. Me and Patty decided to give Colorado a try.” He scribbled down the address. “I’m going to be looking for work, too. If you hear anything—”
A big man in a flat brim hat filled the doorway. “We got no work here.”
Petra hadn’t heard him approach, which was surprising given his mountainous girth and the fact that he was wearing boots. She wondered how long he’d been eavesdropping.
Francine said, “This is Robert. He’s one of our handymen and has clearly forgotten his manners. Your hat, sir.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He snatched it off his head. His greasy black hair hung nearly to his shoulders. His thick neck supported an overlarge head with heavy jowls. A paunch spilled over his belt, but he didn’t look soft. With those huge shoulders, he could probably lift a buffalo. Plus, he was wearing a holster on his belt—not exactly standard equipment for a handyman.
Smiling, she introduced herself and Brady. Robert nodded an acknowledgment but didn’t shake hands. Instead, he held out palms the size of baseball mitts and smeared with grease.
“You’ve been doing some car repair,” Brady said. “I might be able to help out. I’m a mechanic.”
“Actually,” Petra said, “he’s an artist.”
“But working on cars and trucks pays the bills,” Brady concluded.
“If we have need of your s
ervices,” Francine said, “we’ll be in touch.”
“I appreciate it,” Petra said.
“Robert will show you out the back door and accompany you to your truck.”
“Don’t go,” Dee said plaintively. “Please, please, don’t leave.”
When Francine approached her, she went silent.
Even if Petra hadn’t known that the Lost Lamb was involved in illegal activities, she would have thought the atmosphere was a weird mix—frightened pregnant women, nervous Margaret, Francine the dominatrix and Robert who was the size of an ogre.
Petra couldn’t wait to come back here and investigate.
Chapter Seven
As Brady drove away from the Lost Lamb, he watched the giant figure of Robert recede in his rearview mirror. The guy was huge. Worse, he moved with the agility of an athlete. If Francine had ordered her so-called handyman to throw them off her property, the situation could have turned ugly. They’d been damn lucky to escape into the night without serious injury.
“That went well,” Petra said.
He wasn’t in the mood for joking. “Not funny.”
“I wasn’t going for a laugh.” She had the nerve to sound insulted. “That was a good meet.”
“It was disorganized. We should have had a plan, a goal, an agenda. In the future, I don’t want you to jump in feet first with no idea of what you’re going to encounter. That’s how you get hurt.”
Even as he spoke, he knew she wouldn’t listen to his warning. Petra was as impulsive as a cat. She’d plunge wildly and then figure out how to land on her feet.
Her behavior didn’t surprise him. Her psychological profile from Quantico labeled her as a risk-taker, similar to Cole McClure who had the reputation of being an incredible undercover agent. As irritating as he found her impulsiveness, her personality type was well suited to quick thinking and adaptability. He hoped her risky actions would work to their advantage without getting them killed.
“We accomplished a lot,” she said. “We got inside Lost Lamb under a reasonable pretext. We saw four out of the five pregnant women who are supposed to be staying there. Plus, I got a chance to show my stuff, even if it was only taking blood pressure. If you ask me, we did good, really good.”
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