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Midwife Cover
Cassie Miles



“There’s only one thing this baby needs. His mother.”
The infant she held in her arms had switched on all her protective instincts. She couldn’t just hand him over and walk away. “I’m coming with you.”
“I can’t sanction that,” Brady said.
Still holding the baby, she left the room and went down the hall to one of the desks behind the counter. “What I do is my decision. Not yours.”
She slipped into her lightweight summer hiking shoes and unlocked her bottom desk drawer. In the back of the drawer, she found her Glock automatic, loaded a clip and snapped the gun in a holster onto her belt.
She stood to face him. Brady was over six feet tall, and she was only five feet, seven inches. She had to tilt her chin to look him straight in the eyes. She wouldn’t mind getting to know him better, even if it meant putting up with his arrogance.
And putting up with the way her heart raced in his presence.

About the Author
Though born in Chicago and raised in LA, USA Today bestselling author CASSIE MILES has lived in Colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk Creek, with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Post.
After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Mills & Boon Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.

Midwife Cover

USA Today Bestselling Author Cassie Miles


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To the memory of Tony Chesnar, a great guy and
a great friend. And, as always, to Rick.

Chapter One
The sooner this investigation was over with, the better. After eight months in the field, Special Agent Brady Masters had reached the end of his patience. He was more than ready to return to Quantico and had paid extra, out of his own pocket, to hitch a ride on a charter flight from Albuquerque to the Grand County Airport outside Granby, Colorado.
As he disembarked from the small plane onto the tarmac, he kept his head down. The unobstructed view from the unmanned airfield on the Grand Mesa was no doubt spectacular, especially now at sunset with the blood-red skies and the clouds traced with gold, but Brady didn’t give a damn about the landscape.
He’d been here for all four seasons, from winter to spring to summer and now fall. The clear air, rugged plains and distant snow-capped peaks had ceased to astound him; his career path was back east where he was being considered for a profiler position with an elite team in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. All he needed to do right now was tie up one last loose end. Then, it was bye-bye Rocky Mountains.
Waiting outside a hangar at the end of the airstrip was Special Agent Cole McClure. They’d met before, and Brady knew enough about Cole’s background to appreciate the kick-ass skills of the former undercover specialist who now worked in the Denver field office.
“Where are we headed?” Cole asked as they strode side by side toward his black SUV.
Brady handed over a piece of paper on which he’d written the address and directions given to him over the phone by an informant. “If this tip pays off, we’ll need backup from local law enforcement.”
“Not a problem.” Cole opened the car door and got behind the steering wheel. “I know the locals. My wife used to live around here. She delivered a baby for one of the deputies.”
Brady fastened his seat belt. “Is your wife a doctor?”
“A midwife.”
“You have a baby of your own, right?”
“Emily.” As soon as he spoke his daughter’s name, Cole transformed from a hard-edged federal agent into a fuzzy teddy bear with a badge. “She’s ten months old. A beauty like her mom, and she’s almost walking.”
“And talking?”
“She says dada.” He cleared his throat and wiped the goofy grin off his face, returning his focus to FBI business. “What’s our plan here? Brief me.”
“As you know, I’m part of the ITEP task force.”
“Illegal Transport and Exploitation of Persons,” Cole said, spelling out the acronym. “I’ve heard that your team has had some success.”
“Not enough.”
They were investigating an interlinked human trafficking operation that had spread like a virus across the southwestern states from San Diego to Salt Lake City to Dallas. Even though the task force had arrested several individuals, they were playing a game of Whack-a-Mole. Each time they nabbed one, two more popped up.
“How did you get this assignment?” Cole asked.
“I’m a profiler and psychologist, specializing in interrogation. It’s my job to get these guys to talk. The problem is that most of them don’t know much. They’re little more than delivery boys who happen to be transporting human cargo. In their minds, this is just a job.”
Brady was sick of hearing their excuses, disgusted by their unintended cruelty and their indignation when they were arrested. These delivery boys weren’t psychopaths, but they lacked empathy and basic decency. While they did their “jobs,” they managed to ignore the fact that eighty percent of their cargo were women and children who would be processed into lives of forced labor, servitude, prostitution and worse.
“The lead we’re following,” Brady continued, “comes from a guy by the name of Escher who seems to have grown a conscience. He gave me a location that’s used as a dropoff point—an abandoned house with a three-car garage. The property belongs to his eighty-nine-year-old grandma who doesn’t live there anymore.”
Cole steered the SUV onto a two-lane road leading into the hills covered with pine forests and gold-leafed aspen. “Over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go.”
“Spoken like the father of a ten-month-old.”
“What about you, Brady? Married?”
“Not yet.”
“But you’re looking?”
He shrugged. He didn’t like to think of himself as a stubborn bachelor who was wedded to his career, but with each passing year, that identity was becoming more solidly fixed. “My twin sister says that if I don’t get married soon, I’ll turn into an obsessive-compulsive old fart who spends his days organizing his sock drawer and alphabetizing his canned goods.”
Her analysis wasn’t all that far-fetched. He had, on occasion, wondered if pinto beans should be filed under P for pinto or B for bean.
“You’re a twin?”
“My sister is an agent, too. Based in Manhattan, married with one kid. She works cybercrimes.”
“Do you look alike?”
“You tell me.”
Brady pulled out his cell phone and flipped to a photo of himself and Barbara taken a few months ago on their thirty-second birthday. Their coloring was similar with dark blond hair and gray eyes. They both had high foreheads and square jaws, but the resemblance ended there. Nobody had ever called Brady cute, but that word perfectly described Barbara’s huge smile, button nose and twinkly eyes. In the photo, she was tossing her head, laughing.
Cole said, “She’s a lot prettier than you.”
“As it should be.” He tucked the phone back into his pocket. “How much farther?”
“According to the numbers on the mailboxes by the road, we’re getting close. Maybe a mile or so.”
“Are you wearing a vest?”
“Nope. Are you?”
“I am.” He’d spent extra for a brand of lightweight, concealable body armor developed by the Israelis. In the field, Brady always wore a protective vest under his button-down white shirt and black suit coat. Those were the rules. “We can stop if you want to get into gear.”
Cole shrugged. “I’ll take my chances.”
An interesting choice, Brady thought. Even though Cole had settled down and was a proud papa, he still exhibited the risk-taking behavior of an undercover operative. People could modify their behavior, but few really changed.
The road meandered through a forest that was sparsely settled with what looked like summer vacation cabins. This was a good area for a hideout—close enough to main roads for a quick getaway and secluded enough to be off the radar.
Cole turned left at a nearly indecipherable street marker for Wigwam Way. The house nearest to the corner was a quaint barn that had been remodeled into a house with a large window where the hayloft would have been. On the opposite side was a cheerful log structure with red shutters, plastic flowers in window boxes and a burned wood sign that said Welcome to the Peterson Place.
A hundred yards down the road, the charm faded as quickly as the dusk that spread shadows across the land. Scratchy letters on a rusted mailbox spelled out Escher, the name of his informant. Inside a four-foot-tall chain-link fence was a ramshackle bungalow. At one time, this little house might have been pretty, but the stucco was cracked, weathered and filthy. Weeds reached as high as the windows, many of which were busted. The gate across the driveway hung open as though someone had left in a hurry.
“That’s the address.” Cole drove past without stopping. “How do you want to proceed?”
“The front door was ajar. The place could be abandoned.”
Brady was disappointed that they weren’t closing in on suspects, but he wasn’t surprised. The phone call from Escher had been hasty. His tone was angry but frightened; he was about to bolt.
At a wide spot in the road, Cole turned the SUV around. “I didn’t see any vehicles, but there was the big garage.”
“Like my informant said.”
The three-car garage, a cheap prefab with vinyl siding, would make a good holding pen for human cargo. If there were prisoners, there would also be armed-and-dangerous guards.
Brady considered calling for backup before entering. In a city, he would have done so, but organizing a police presence in the mountains took a hell of a lot more time and effort. He wanted to get this loose end tied up and head back to Quantico.
He drew his Beretta and checked the clip. “Pull up to the front door. We’ll search the house first.”
“You got it.”
Cole drove back, whipped down the driveway and slammed on the brake. Brady was out of the car as soon as it stopped moving. Gun in hand, he charged toward the open door. The interior of the house was dark and dirty. A torn bedsheet hung from the curtain rod across the front window. Tattered furniture crouched on an olive green carpet. Fast food wrappers littered a coffee table along with the remains of fried chicken in a bucket. The still-greasy chicken showed that someone had been here recently.
Brady entered a narrow hallway with a bedroom at each end and a bathroom in the middle. In the front bedroom, he found a bare mattress and ragged blankets. The closet held a pile of stained clothing, both men’s and women’s.
The grime in the bathroom defied description.
The second bedroom had yellowed newspapers duct-taped over some of the windows. On the floor was a body, sprawled on his back with both arms thrown over his head and one leg doubled under him in a grotesque, horizontal pirouette.
Brady turned on the overhead light and called to Cole. “In here.”
There was no point in feeling for a pulse. Half the man’s head had been blown away. Brain matter spattered the peeling gray wallpaper, and blood puddled on the hardwood floor. Brady hunkered down beside the dead man.
Cole entered the bedroom. “Oh, man, that stinks.”
“Rigor hasn’t set in. He hasn’t been dead for long.” Brady breathed through his mouth, not wanting to inhale the stench. He pushed the body onto his side and took the wallet from the back pocket of his baggy jeans. In the cracked leatherette wallet were two fives and a driver’s license. “It’s Escher. My informant.”
“When did he contact you?”
Brady checked his wristwatch. “Three and a half hours ago. He called me in Albuquerque.”
“He might have already been here, chowing down on a bucket of chicken.”
And preparing to die. Brady stood and turned away from the body. He’d only questioned Escher face-to-face once. There wasn’t enough evidence to arrest him, but Brady was sure that the informant had been a coyote for many years, charging exorbitant amounts of money to smuggle illegals across the border from Mexico. That was bad enough, but nowhere near as vicious as the exploitation involved in trafficking where the human cargo was never set free. In two subsequent phone calls, Brady had played on Escher’s sympathies.
Brady wondered aloud, “Why did he call me? Something must have sparked his conscience. But what?”
“Do I need to contact the Denver field office to handle forensics on the body?” Cole asked.
“We can leave the murder investigation to the local sheriff.” The people who had killed Escher were already down the road. Why had the informant called? Why did he want Brady to come to this place? “Let’s take a look in the garage.”
He picked his way through the crap scattered throughout the little house. Looking for evidence, he’d have to paw through this garbage. There wasn’t enough hand sanitizer in the world to make this right.
Outside, he sucked down a breath of fresh air. Even though he didn’t expect to find anything in the garage, both he and Cole held their guns at the ready. He went to a door on the side. There were two padlocks, but the door was standing open.
As he stepped inside, he hoped with all his heart that they wouldn’t find any other victims. He flicked a switch by the door. Light from two bare bulbs showed the detritus of former inhabitants. Clutter and rags. A couple of cardboard boxes. Bare mattresses. Sleeping bags. The stink of urine and sweat was overpowering.
Cole grumbled, “This must be what hell looks like.”
“It’s the end of the road for my investigation,” Brady said. “Escher was my last viable lead.”
He heard a rustling noise coming from the far corner. Raccoons? Rats? Brady moved toward the sound. He looked down into a cardboard box. Inside, swaddled in filthy yellow blanket decorated with sheep, was an infant with round cheeks and a tiny rosebud mouth. This was what Escher had wanted him to find.
The little arms reached toward him, and Brady scooped the baby from the makeshift nest. He snuggled the tiny bundle against his chest. “How old do you think it is?”
“Not more than a couple of weeks,” Cole said.
“You sure?”
“Pretty much. With my wife’s job, I’m around babies a lot.” He reached out and stroked the fine black hair on the infant’s head. “Doesn’t seem to be injured, but we should check it out. I know where to take this little one.”
The baby wriggled. The mouth suckled an invisible teat. Brady had nothing to feed this infant. All he could offer was a promise that he would point the abandoned child toward a better life.
Trafficking in newborns was a new and horrible twist in the ITEP investigation—something he couldn’t ignore. Brady knew he wouldn’t be returning to Quantico today.

Chapter Two
In the front reception area of the Rocky Mountain Women’s Clinic in Granby, Petra Jamison stood on her head with her elbows forming a tripod and her bare feet against the wall for support. She’d propped the front doors open to allow the early evening breezes to waft inside and dispel the faintly antiseptic smell from the examination rooms. In about an hour, a group of pregnant women would arrive for Petra’s class on prenatal yoga breathing, and she’d decided to get in the mood by playing a CD of Navajo wooden flute music and doing meditation exercises.
Even though the room was dimly lit with only one lamp on the desk behind the counter and a three-wick sandalwood candle on the coffee table, she was bathed in the warm glow of positivity. Her mind and body were in balance. The rush of blood to her brain gave her a burst of energy at the end of the day. As if she needed an evening wake-up. Petra had the circadian rhythm of a night owl, maybe because she was born at midnight. Or maybe her preference for the dark had something to do with her fair complexion—people who freckle shouldn’t go out in the sun. Or maybe …
She heard a vehicle pull into the parking lot. A car door slammed. Still upside down, she saw a man in a black suit and white shirt holding a baby in his arms. He strode toward her and leaned over, tilting his head to squint into her face. He had tense eyes and the kind of high forehead that she associated with intelligence, even though she knew hairline was nothing more than a genetically determined growth pattern. Was he smart? Or clever? Did he have a sense of humor? Probably not. This guy didn’t look like Mr. Giggle.
“Back up,” she said.
“What?”
“I need for you to back up so I can put my legs down.”
When he stepped backward, the baby started crying.
Petra lowered her legs, stood and adjusted the long, auburn braid that hung down her back. Before she could say anything, Cole McClure charged into the reception area.
“Hey, lady,” Cole greeted her. “I need your help.”
“Anything for you.” She liked Cole, even though her fellow midwife and friend, Rachel, had moved away from Granby when she married him. “How’s little Emily?”
“Perfect.” He made the introduction. “Petra Jamison, midwife, meet Brady Masters, special agent.”
“Hi, Brady.” She purposely used his first name instead of his title. The clinic was her space, and her protocol applied. In here, it didn’t matter if you were a bank president or a car mechanic—she’d delivered babies for women with both of those occupations. “May I take the baby?”
“Be my guest.”
When he transferred the tiny bundle into her arms, her fingers brushed against his chest. It was hard as a rock. “Are you wearing Kevlar?”
“It’s a protective vest.”
She glanced between the two men. Even though Cole had on a dark blazer, his jeans and blue shirt were casual. Quite the opposite, Brady matched the stereotype for men in black, right down to his body armor. His underpants were probably government-issue. “Do you mind telling me why this baby has an FBI escort?”
“Long story,” Brady said.
The poor thing was filthy, swaddled in a blanket with a sheep design. The baby’s cries were fitful. The little face twisted in a knot.
She blew out the candle and went down the hallway that was covered with hundreds of photos of families who had used the clinic over the past five years.
In a spacious lavender room with sinks, cabinets and a refrigerator, she placed the wailing infant on a changing table and removed the blanket. There was a logo in the corner and a blood stain, but she saw no wounds on the baby as she peeled off a grungy T-shirt and a cloth diaper that looked like it hadn’t been changed in a very long time. “When’s the last time this little boy ate anything?”
“Don’t know,” Brady said.
She shoved the discarded clothing and blanket aside. “You probably need those things for evidence. Trash bags are in that cabinet. Cole, would you prepare a bottle of formula? You know where everything is.”
While the two feds did her bidding, she slid a portable tub into one side of the double sink. Using a soft cloth, she gave the baby a quick wash, inspecting him for cuts and rashes. The warm water soothed his cries until he was only emitting an occasional hiccup.
“Is he okay?” Brady asked.
“I think he’s going to be just fine,” she said. “Nothing wrong with his lungs, that’s for sure.”
After she dried him off, she applied a medicinal salve to his chafed bottom, put on a biodegradable diaper and swaddled him in a clean white blanket. She took the bottle from Cole and teased the nipple into the baby boy’s mouth. After only a few tries, he started sucking.
The whole process had taken less than ten minutes; Petra was an expert. She looked toward Cole who was on his cell phone. Even though she didn’t really want to talk to Special Agent Brady, she spoke to him in a soft voice that wouldn’t upset the feeding infant. “I’d like an explanation.”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he said. “Thanks for taking care of the, um, immediate problem.”
“Are you referring to the poopy diaper?”
He scowled as though it was below him to discuss poop. This guy was uber-intense. Tight-lipped, he said, “The infant needs to be turned over to Child Protective Services.”
“There’s only one thing this baby needs. His mother. What happened to her? Is she dead?”
“Why would you think—”
“There was blood on the blanket. A big smear right next to the logo for Lost Lamb Ranch, whatever that is. So, what happened? Did you find the baby at a crime scene?”
Even though Brady had already washed his hands, he used a spritz of hand sanitizer. “The short answer is yes. There was a crime. We don’t know where the mother is.”
“I might be able to help. I don’t know all the pregnant women in the area, but I’ve got a pretty good network. Should I ask around?”
“That won’t be necessary.” His gray eyes were cool and distant. “We have reason to believe the mother isn’t from around here.”
“On the run?” she guessed.
His expression gave nothing away.
“Is she a hostage? Or kidnapped?”
“It’s an ongoing investigation. I can’t discuss it. You understand.”
She took his condescending attitude as a challenge to figure out what was going on. The infant she held in her arms had switched on all her protective instincts. She couldn’t just hand him over and walk away.
“It must have been something terrible,” she said, “that separated the mother from her baby. In spite of how dirty he was, he’d been taken care of. Mom didn’t want to abandon him.”
Brady said nothing.
She could only think of two reasons a mother would leave her baby behind. “Either she was forced to run or she thought the baby would be safer without her. If I had to guess, I’d say that mother and baby were being transported illegally.”
“Good guess,” Cole said as he ended his phone call. “I checked in with the sheriff, and he put me through to one of his deputies who picked up an injured woman—an illegal with no green card. She kept saying that her baby was stolen.”
“How badly is she injured?” Brady asked.
“Knife wounds. A lot of blood,” Cole reported. “The deputy took her to Doc Wilson’s house. It was closer to his location than any hospital or clinic. The doc stitched her up. He says she’ll be fine.”
“We need to talk to her,” Brady said.
“I told the deputy to stay with her at the doc’s place. If anybody is after her, she could be in danger.”
Petra listened with rising concern as they discussed their plan to drive to Doc Wilson’s place. Her heart went out to this mother. She wanted to help. “I’m coming with you.”
“I can’t sanction that,” Brady said.
Still holding the baby, she left the room and went down the hall to one of the desks behind the counter. “What I do is my decision. Not yours.”
“You heard what Cole said. It’s dangerous.”
She whipped around and transferred the baby into Brady’s arms. “Keep the nipple in his mouth. He needs to get as much hydration and nourishment as possible.”
Sitting in her ergonomic desk chair, she slipped into her lightweight summer hiking shoes and unlocked her bottom desk drawer. In the back of the drawer, she found her GLOCK automatic, loaded a clip into the magazine and snapped the gun in a holster onto her belt.
“No,” Brady said firmly. “You’re a civilian.”
She pointed to a yellow-painted brick that she was using as a paperweight. “You know what that is?”
“An award for completing the Yellow Brick Road at Quantico.”
She gave a nod to her former career path as an FBI special agent. “I was number one on the obstacle course back then, and I’ve kept up my skills. Besides, I can take care of the baby.”
“The baby? Who said anything about taking the baby?”
She stood to face him. Brady was over six feet tall, and she was only five feet, seven inches. She had to tilt her chin to look him straight in the eyes. “If you want the mom to talk, you need the baby. She’s not going to open her mouth when she’s in a panic about her missing child.”
For a full twenty seconds, he glared at her, definitely ticked off. Then he inhaled deeply, exhaled and conceded. “You’re right.”
“Wow, I didn’t expect you to give in.”
“You might have the wrong impression of me.”
“Let’s see.” She took a step back and looked him up and down. “My first impression is that you’re rigid, controlling and always follow the rules. Pretty much the opposite of me. Is that about right?”
“Not bad for a superficial description.”
“Could you do better? Go on, tell me about myself.”
“You don’t want to play this game.”
Another challenge? She couldn’t let it pass. “I insist. Tell me your impression of me.”
“A risk-taker,” he said in a low voice meant only for her ears. “Pretty much fearless, but you’re afraid of fire.”
“What?” How had he known that?
“You heard me,” Brady said. “You come from a family where at least one member is in law enforcement. You’re rebellious and always root for the underdog. You’re honest to the point of tactless. You say that you don’t care what other people think but you’re sensitive. You lost someone close to you—a boyfriend or a fiancé. And you’re from northern California, near San Francisco.”
Taken aback, she gaped. He’d been correct on every single count. “Either you’re a psychic or a damn good profiler.”
“Psychics don’t generally become special agents,” he said. “If you come with us to pick up the mother, I’m going to insist that you wear a protective vest.”
“Fine.”
His snap analysis intrigued her. She wouldn’t mind getting to know him better, even if it meant putting up with his arrogance.
BRADY DECIDED THEY SHOULD take two vehicles. Cole had already left in Petra’s truck and would coordinate backup with other officers from the sheriff’s department. Brady, Petra and the baby would ride together in the black SUV. His plan was to pick up the witness and take her into FBI custody. He’d already put in a call for a chopper to meet them at the airfield.
Through the windshield of the SUV, he watched as she stood on the sidewalk talking to four hugely pregnant women. The ladies waddled into the clinic, and Petra came toward him with the baby in her arms. Over her left shoulder, she carried a diaper bag filled with supplies. Her right hand was free to draw the GLOCK automatic from the side holster that was only partially hidden under her long purple vest.
A gun-toting midwife wasn’t his first choice as a partner, but he could work with Petra. She was FBI-trained and would do anything to protect the baby. Her instinct to reunite the mother with her child had been smart.
She arranged the sleeping baby in the carrier she’d installed in the back of the SUV. Safety first. He approved.
When she opened the door to the passenger side, he held out the dark blue Kevlar vest with FBI stenciled across the back. It wasn’t necessary for him to repeat his order; she knew what needed to be done.
As she donned the protective armor, her blue eyes expressed an irony that contrasted the sweetness of her full lips and the innocence of the freckles that spread across her cheeks. She reminded him of a mischievous kid, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking she was immature.
She hopped into the seat and fastened her seat belt across the vest. “Happy?”
“Delirious.”
He pulled away from the curb. The GPS in the dashboard showed him the route to Doc Wilson’s address, which seemed simple enough. Five miles outside town, he’d turn left on Conifer Street, then another three miles on a winding road. “Tell me what kind of cover we’ll find at Doc Wilson’s house.”
“Are you expecting an ambush?”
“I want to be prepared for any possibility.”
“It’s a two-story log cabin in a forested area. There’s a small clinic with a parking lot attached to the right side of the house. Doc’s retired but still sees a few patients.”
The forest bothered him. If the traffickers had picked up the deputy’s scent, they could sneak into Doc’s clinic without being seen. He remembered the brutally murdered body of his informant sprawled on the floor. These were vicious men who had reason to silence the witness.
“Fill me in,” she said. “What are we looking for?”
“Your job is to take care of the baby and the mother. That’s it. Period. Nothing else.”
“I should question her,” Petra said. “I mean, look at you and look at me. A terrified woman who almost lost her son is way more likely to open up to another woman. Plus, she’s an illegal, and I speak Spanish. Do you?”
“Fluently.” Once again, she’d outlined a good plan. A woman-to-woman conversation would probably be more productive than an interrogation. “We’ll both question her. I’m looking for the obvious information. Names, places and dates.”
“Was she brought here by a coyote? I hate those guys.” She shuddered with anger. The wisps of red hair that had escaped her braid flared around her face like flames. “What they do is so wrong on so many levels.”
For a moment, Brady considered telling her about the ITEP investigation into human trafficking and the sickening possibility that infants were being drawn into this web of crime. Her righteous rage matched his own feelings about the victimization of helpless people. This was a passionate woman, perhaps too much so. Her emotions were close to the surface.
He decided against adding fuel to her fire. “Our focus is to get information that can be acted upon immediately.”
“So we want to talk to her right away.”
“Correct.” Time was of the essence. The traffickers might still be in the area, and he needed to find them.
The light from a half moon and a sky filled with stars illuminated the sparsely populated land beyond the city borders. There were only a couple of houses with lights in the windows and few headlights on the two-lane road.
He used his hands-free phone to contact Cole. “Are you there yet?”
“Just approaching the house,” Cole said. “I haven’t seen any sign of the other deputies.”
“Don’t go in alone. Wait for me.”
“We might have a problem,” Cole said. “A few minutes ago, the deputy at Doc’s called me. Even though I could hear the woman sobbing and yelling in the background, he said he had everything under control and didn’t need my help. He said he’d meet me at the sheriff’s department.”
“He was warning you off.”
“That’s what I thought,” Cole said, “but I played along and asked him if he was sure he didn’t need assistance.”
“His answer?”
“He confirmed that he didn’t need help. I could barely make out what the woman was saying. It sounded like she said, ‘Don’t hurt my baby.’”
Brady feared that the traffickers had caught up to the witness at Doc’s place. He might be headed into danger. Worse than that, he’d dragged Petra and the baby along with him.

Chapter Three
In the reflected light from the dashboard, Petra studied Brady’s profile as he ended his call. Intuitively, she knew something was bothering him. Not that he’d been cheerful before, but he was definitely darker and more serious. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“When I exit the vehicle, you get into the driver’s seat. If I don’t signal you in five minutes, drive away fast. Do not, I repeat, do not enter the house.”
“I’m armed,” she reminded him.
Under his breath, he said, “Please don’t kill anybody.”
“I’m just saying … If there’s a threat, I can respond.”
“A dead suspect isn’t going to do me much good. I need for you to concentrate on one thing—keeping the baby safe.”
She didn’t argue. It didn’t take FBI training for her to realize that there needed to be one clear leader in a crisis situation. “Are you going to wait for Cole?”
“He’s already at the house.” Brady eased up on the accelerator and drove slowly past a black panel van parked at the side of the road.
“What is it?” she asked.
“California plates on that van.”
Tension prickled along the surface of her skin. She rested her hand on the butt of her weapon. When she’d made her bold pronouncement about keeping up her skills, she hadn’t really expected to fire the GLOCK. And target practice was a lot different than facing real danger. “Do you think the van belongs to your suspect?”
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.”
“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.”
“Why can’t the FBI just shut it down?”
“Supposedly, this ranch is a nonprofit home for unwed mothers. On paper, they look legit. They file their taxes and pay their bills. The adoptions arranged through Lost Lamb seem to fulfill all the proper requirements, but I think they’re a front for trafficking. If I can get inside and find out who’s really running the show, then I can shut them down, lock them up and make sure they never hurt another child.”
Her head bobbed, and her ponytail bounced. “That’s why you’re going undercover to investigate.”
“But I don’t have an in.”
“And I do,” she said.
“What’s more natural than a midwife looking for work at a facility for unwed mothers?”
“So we’ll move to the area,” she said, “and I’ll be your undercover wife.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“Not exactly.”
He didn’t push the issue. The time for teasing was over. “I won’t lie to you. This assignment is dangerous, and it’s not your responsibility. I want you to consider before you give me your answer.”
“How long would it take? I can’t be away from work.”
“All taken care of. Cole’s wife will move up here and handle your caseload. We’ll say you had a family emergency.”
“Wait a minute. You’ve already talked this over with Cole and Rachel?”
“It was Rachel’s idea for me to approach you.”
He was well aware that Cole’s wife had a matchmaking agenda for him and Petra. Because her marriage had turned out well, Rachel was anxious for her friend to find an FBI husband of her own.
Brady didn’t bother telling her that he and Petra wouldn’t make a good match. Not that he didn’t find the feisty redhead attractive. He liked her careless beauty, even the freckles. And she had a killer body. But they were from different planets when it came to temperament. She was all emotion, and he was completely rational.
From the few minutes he’d spent in her kitchen, he knew she’d drive him crazy. Her home was clean but cluttered, with all kinds of scribbled kids’ pictures hanging on the fridge and the countertops lined with containers were in every shape and size—ranging from clear glass to something that looked like a purple mushroom.
“Let’s walk,” she said.
He fell into step beside her as they went down her driveway onto the sidewalk. This was a pleasant residential neighborhood with small, frame houses on large lots. At the corner, she turned left. They were going uphill.
She asked, “Why me?”
“Obviously, there’s your occupation. It’s tough for an undercover operative to fake being a midwife, especially if they’re asked to deliver a baby. And I’ve seen you in action. You don’t get rattled under pressure.”
“But I do get rattled,” she muttered. “I don’t like being teased.”
“Duly noted,” he said. “I also looked into your record at Quantico. You were top of your class, scored off-the-charts in all kinds of tests and were on your way to becoming an outstanding field agent.”
“But I quit.”
The incident that caused her to leave the FBI had been described in a Supervisory Special Agent’s report along with a somewhat hostile notation about her tendency to flaunt the rules. “Tell me what happened.”
“I got a message from my brother. He’s a cop in San Francisco. At the time, he worked with my boyfriend who was also a cop. Everybody in my family, except my mom, has a career that involves protecting people. My sister is in the Army. My dad is an arson inspector for the San Francisco Fire Department.”
Her father’s occupation seemed like an explanation for her fear of fire, but her background raised other questions. How could a free spirit like Petra exist in a family that followed and enforced the rules?
Two blocks away from the end of the street where they were walking, he saw a forested area. “Tell me about your mom.”
“Best cook in the world.” Her mouth relaxed into a grin. “Sometimes, she worked at her father’s restaurant and made the most amazing Greek food. When I was a kid, I loved to go with her, even though my yaya would always pat me on the head and say that my red hair meant trouble.”
“Yaya?”
“Grandmother,” she said. “She moved to the United States when she was eight and became a citizen. But she is Greek, first and always. She believed redheads were either descended directly from the gods or were wild and wanton, maybe even vampires.”
“She thought you were different.” Maybe a self-fulfilling prophecy for Petra. “It sounds like you preferred the more creative lifestyle at the restaurant. But you chose to join the FBI.”
“All through high school and college I was kind of wild. Let’s just say it didn’t turn out well. I was twenty-one, and I figured it was time to give my father’s way a try.”
Her digression into describing her family life had given him useful insights into her personality. “You still haven’t told me why you quit the FBI.”
They’d reached the forest. She left the sidewalk and followed a narrow path that led into a thick grove of aspen. A brisk wind rushed through the white trunks, and the golden leaves shimmered like precious coins.
Petra wrapped her hand around one slender trunk and tilted her head back. The reflected light picked out blond highlights in her auburn hair as she returned to her story. “Like I said, my brother called. He told me that my boyfriend had been seriously injured in the line of duty, and I left Quantico without going through proper procedures.”
According to the account he’d read, she wasn’t cleared to leave the training area and had sneaked outside the perimeter, evading the surveillance. Then she’d flagged down a car, using her FBI credentials. After she was on a flight to San Francisco, she’d called her supervisor.
Even though Brady admired her resourcefulness, he didn’t understand her refusal to go through regular channels. “You would have qualified for compassionate leave.”
“I doubt it.” She shrugged. “This was a boyfriend. Not a fiancé. Not a husband. I was pretty sure I’d be told to suck it up and get back to work. And I couldn’t do that. I just couldn’t. I had to be with him.”
This was a clear example of following reckless emotion rather than logic. “Then what happened?”
“I got a stern reprimand, and it ticked me off. I quit. Flat out and permanently. I wanted nothing more to do with the FBI with all those rules and regulations.” She tossed him a grin. “Here’s the irony. My boyfriend recovered in just a couple of weeks. And the big, fat jerk dumped me.”
“And you went to school to become a midwife.”
“Which turned out to be a job I love. Maybe I ought to send the jerk a thank-you card.”
Brady had a fairly good idea what he was getting into by bringing Petra into his undercover assignment—a whole lot of passion and drama. On the plus side, being undercover wasn’t a stretch for her. Nobody would ever think this woman was with law enforcement.
“Think about the assignment,” he said. “I need your answer as soon as possible.”
She walked along the path, touching the trunk of each tree she passed. “Did you know that the druids believed the aspen was sacred? They’d come into a grove like this, sit quietly and listen to the rustling and watch the quaking leaves until they reached enlightenment.”
“Didn’t know that.” He really didn’t give a damn about druids.
“And there’s a Ute legend about how the Great Spirit cursed the proud aspen. Because it refused to bow to him, the tree would forever tremble whenever anyone looked at it.”
“What’s your point?”
“I’m looking at the big picture.” She plucked a leaf and twirled it between her fingers as she came back toward him. “My answer is yes.”
“Did the tree tell you to say that?”
“I came to this decision all by myself,” she said. “If it means rescuing babies, I’ll do anything. I’ll even pretend to be your wife.”
She didn’t sound particularly happy about the idea, which was fine with him. This was an investigation, not a romance.
BY TWO O’CLOCK IN THE afternoon, Petra had made her excuses to the clinic and arranged for Rachel to take over her caseload. She’d packed one suitcase with clothes and shoes. Her other odds and ends went into a couple of cardboard boxes. Altogether, her personal items took up only a few square feet in the back of her truck, which was fortunate because Brady’s possessions filled the rest of the space to overflowing.
His undercover identity was as a struggling artist, and he’d brought along easels, equipment and a couple of crates of artwork. Added to those were several other unmarked cardboard boxes he’d gathered from grocery and liquor stores.
Leaning against the side of the truck, she watched as he transferred his things from the back of his minivan. He loaded not one, not two, but four cases of bottled water.
She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure they have water in Durango.”
“I like this brand.”
Even though she’d be first in line to promote the benefits of staying hydrated, she didn’t believe the taste varied much. Water was water. “What’s in all those boxes?”
“Kitchen supplies, linens, electronics. I haven’t labeled anything because that’s not something my undercover character would do.”
“Ah, yes. You’re supposed to be Brady Gilliam, former alcoholic and artist from San Francisco, who inherited a house not far from the Lost Lamb Ranch.”
“And you’re my wife, Patty.”
She frowned. “How come you get to keep your first name and I don’t?”
“Petra is an unusual name. If somebody goes snooping around on the internet, looking for information on midwives, they might make the connection to your real identity.”
He already had her documentation in hand—a fake California driver’s license and social security card. Apparently, he’d been confident that she’d agree to his proposal before he’d even talked to her. Although she didn’t like to think of herself as predictable, his conclusion was totally logical, given what happened the first time they’d met. She was someone who took action. And she didn’t hesitate to protect the helpless.
To establish the rest of her undercover identity, Brady did a computer consultation with the FBI computer techs. They produced a dossier on Patty Gilliam’s history, including a website and online presence.
She didn’t love the persona they’d created. “Why do I need to have a criminal record for passing bad checks?”
“If you’re too squeaky clean, the scumbags won’t be able to relate to you.”
He returned to his minivan and dragged out a beat-up, filthy tarp. He didn’t ask for her help, but stretching the tarp over the boxes would be easier with two people.
She picked up one end. “This thing looks like it went through a cattle stampede.”
“Brady Gilliam wouldn’t have a new tarp.”
“Oh, good. Now you’re referring to yourself in the third person.”
“I’m not Gilliam yet.”
She helped him spread the tarp and tie it down. “Where did Brady Gilliam get all this stuff?”
“I had some of it shipped from my home in Arlington, and I found the rest in army surplus and secondhand stores.”
“You’re kind of a compulsive planner, aren’t you?”
He said nothing, which was fine with her. The question had been rhetorical. His compulsiveness was a given.
That tendency made him extremely vulnerable to teasing. She hadn’t forgotten how he’d embarrassed her with his off-handed, unexpected marriage proposal, and she intended to get even.
He finished with the tarp and stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Thanks for volunteering the use of your truck.”
“Sure thing.” He’d already changed her Colorado license plates to California. “I don’t even mind that you think my sweet, red, Toyota pickup is beat-up enough to belong to the itinerant Gilliam couple. I mean, sure, she’s got a little rust and a couple of dents, but she looks good for a twelve-year-old truck.”
“She’s also got an oil leak and needs a tune-up.” He patted the side of the truck. “I could fix that for you.”
“You?”
“My grandpa owns a car repair shop. I’ve worked for him since I was teenager.”
A surprising bit of info. “You don’t seem like the type who’d get his hands dirty.”
“I wear gloves.”
“Of course you do.”
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. With his stubble and his sweat and his background as a car mechanic, he almost didn’t seem like a fed … almost. He gave a nod. “I think we’re ready to go.”
“Really?” Not until I get my revenge. “Is that what you’re going to wear?”
He looked down at his black T-shirt and cargo pants. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Nothing, if you’re Brady Masters, FBI agent. In that identity, it makes sense for you to wear a fitted black T-shirt and khaki cargo pants that still look new.”
“They are new. Bought them yesterday.”
“If you’re going to pass yourself off as Brady Gilliam, we’re going to have to grunge you up.”
He faced her directly, and she had a momentary flashback to her sexy dreams. Whether he was a fed or an artist or anything else, Brady was a fine-looking man—tall and lean with wide shoulders. Although his gray eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, the lower half of his face was expressive. When amused, his dimple appeared. Most of the time, his jaw was tight and determined—like it was right now.
“What makes you an expert on grunge?” he asked.
“Dude, I grew up in San Francisco and I went to college at Berkeley. I know what starving artists look like.”
“Fine,” he muttered. “I’m open to suggestions.”
“Untuck your shirt and take off your socks.”
Reluctantly, he did as she said. He cringed as he stuck his bare feet into his running shoes. “Happy?”
“Those sneakers look like they just walked out of a mall. Maybe you should wear sandals.”
“I don’t like sandals.”
“You need to loosen up. Let your toes come out and breathe.” She thoroughly enjoyed giving him a hard time. “And you’ve got to lose the wristwatch.”
His right hand coiled protectively around his gold watchband. “Not the watch.”
“Artists don’t pay attention to time. Gilliam isn’t the kind of guy who punches a time clock or makes appointments.”
“It’s a long drive. I’ll take off the watch when we’re close to Durango.”
Her next bit of supposedly well-meaning advice was sure to push him over the edge. “You know what would make you really look like an out-of-work artist?”
“What?”
“A tattoo. Maybe a dragon starting on your wrist, going all the way up your arm and wrapping around your throat.”
He recoiled as though she’d splashed him in the face with a bucket of ice water. “No tats. No way.”
She smiled sweetly. Payback was fun. “I’m teasing.”
“That was a joke?”
“I just wanted to get under your skin, no pun intended.”
He exhaled through flared nostrils as he rubbed his un-tattooed forearm. “This undercover stuff doesn’t come easy for me. I have to work at it.”
“Because you’re not a good liar?”
“Lying doesn’t bother me. I have a hard time acting like somebody else. It’s not natural. Cole suggested that I set up Brady Gilliam to reflect as much of my core personality as possible.” He stuck his hand into his pocket. “Speaking of Gilliam, I should give you this ring.”
She took the wedding band from him. To her surprise, it wasn’t a cheap dime store ring. The band was white gold with a Celtic knot design. “Brady, this is beautiful.”
“Even if I was a struggling artist and all-around failure, I’d want my beloved wife to have something special. That’s the only kind of marriage I can imagine.”
Just when she was beginning to think that she had the upper hand, he had disarmed her. She slipped the ring onto her finger. “A perfect fit.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
This occasion seemed to call for something more. A hug? A peck on the cheek? That might give him the wrong idea. They were only pretending to be married. She wasn’t attracted to him. Okay, maybe she was a little bit attracted …
The uncomfortable moment ended when his cell phone rang and he answered. As he talked, he went to the passenger side of the truck and opened the door. They’d already decided that she’d take the first shift driving because she knew her way around the area. She climbed behind the steering wheel, fastened her seat belt and plugged her key into the ignition.
He ended his call and turned toward her. “That was Cole.”
She started the engine. “Why did he call?”
“He’s been coordinating with local law enforcement. During the past five months, three young women have gone missing from Denver.”
“That’s terrible, but it doesn’t sound like a lot.”
“All three were eight months pregnant.”
A shudder wrenched through her. With the teasing and the packing and the rushing around, she’d almost forgotten why they were going undercover. This investigation wasn’t a game. These missing women were victims of the worst kind of crime.
She worked with new mothers every day. There was no worse pain than losing a child.

Chapter Five
Her twelve-year-old truck didn’t have GPS, but Brady trusted Petra to find the best route from Granby to Durango in the southwest corner of Colorado. If they got lost, he’d use the map function on his phone to get them back on track.
He took advantage of Petra’s time behind the wheel to make some phone calls. Even though he’d be reporting his progress to the agent in charge of the ITEP task force, Brady had opted to use Cole McClure as his point man. Not only did Cole have years of undercover experience, but he also had a decent relationship with Colorado law enforcement. His information regarding the three missing pregnant women might prove useful.
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?”

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