Midwife Cover - Cassie Miles (7 page)

“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?

“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.

* * *

P
ETRA
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.