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“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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