Midwife Cover - Cassie Miles (8 page)

“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 services,” 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.”

“You were believable,” he conceded.

“How could I not be? I’m playing the role of a midwife. And guess what? That’s what I do, all the time, every day. Easy-peasy.”

“For me? Not so much.” His undercover identity as a laid-back artist fit him like a glove on a foot. He knew enough about art to pull off the occupational part of that equation, but there was nothing easygoing about him.

“Francine believes I’m a pro,” Petra said. “She asked for my card.”

“Because she intends to check us out,” he said. “She’s probably on the phone right now, talking to that lawyer in Durango to make sure we’re who we say we are.”

“We’ve got nothing to worry about,” she countered. “Your FBI techies have our undercover identities in place. When Francine is satisfied that we’re cool, she’ll invite me to come back and deliver babies.”

“You can’t go back there alone.”

“Why not?”

Dozens of reasons exploded inside his head like buckshot pellets. Her lack of training. The unpredictability of the situation. The desperate nature of human trafficking. Mostly, he’d never forgive himself if he sent her off by herself and something happened to her.

“It’s too dangerous,” he said. “You saw Robert. The guy is bigger than a double-wide refrigerator.”

“And armed, too. But Francine has him on a tight leash.” She leaned forward in the passenger seat to look at him. “Was it just me or did she have a Mistress of the Dark vibe?”

He wouldn’t be surprised to find thigh-high leather boots and whips in her closet. “She sure as hell doesn’t look like the matron of a home for unwed mothers.”

“I wonder who delivers the babies. Somehow, I don’t see Francine ruining her manicure with a messy delivery.”

“What about Margaret?”

“Sweet, little Margaret.” Petra chuckled. “She’s got a crush on you.”

“Maybe,” he said.

“There’s nothing maybe about it. When she shook your hand, she was practically drooling.”

He braked, and the truck’s headlights shone on a stop sign that was pocked with bullet holes. They were back at the fork in the road where the left turn led to Lost Lamb and the right would take them to their cabin.

A lot had happened in the past forty-five minutes. He looked over at Petra. Even though she had her seat belt on, she was sitting with her legs tucked up in a yoga position. She radiated calm. No fussing. No fidgeting.

Her smile was a challenge. The spark in her eyes invited him to engage with him. “You know I’m right,” she said.

For a moment, he had the idea that her teasing was sexual, that she wanted him to come closer. “Right about what?”

“Margaret has the hots for you.”

He didn’t care about Margaret or any other woman. Petra filled his vision. He watched the rise and fall of the white muslin fabric that draped softly over her breasts. Her thick, auburn hair framed her face.

Leaning a few inches closer, he realized how much he wanted to kiss her, to brush his fingers through her tangled hair, to inhale the scent of wildflowers that seemed to surround her. All day long, his attraction had been growing. His inappropriate attraction.

He reined in his desire. What had they been talking about? Something about Margaret having a crush on him? He raised an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

“Of you and Margaret? Hah!”

Facing the windshield, he drove past the stop sign. “Think of yourself as Patty Gilliam, my wife. Do we have that kind of relationship? Are you the jealous type?”

“Because we’re basing our undercover selves on our real selves, I’d have to say that I’m really attached to the people I love. I couldn’t care less about things, though. Like Gandhi says, the earth provides enough for our need, not our greed.”

“How did we go from jealousy to Gandhi?”

“What about you?” she asked. “Are you possessive?”

“In the sense that I appreciate my possessions and take good care of them, I’d have to say yes.”

“Like your superlight bulletproof vest?”

“And my gun.”

“That’s not very undercover of you.”

“Can’t help it.”

If she didn’t quit teasing, he’d have to retaliate. He knew exactly how to get the upper hand with someone who liked to take risks. All he had to do was toss out a dare, and she’d respond.

“We still haven’t figured out if Margaret is acting as a midwife,” she said. “Maybe you should do a profiler analysis on her.”