The Boss and His Cowgirl (14 page)

Georgie's breath hitched. Was Cyrus right? She knew deep down she wasn't the woman Clay needed, but Clay squeezed her hand and smiled at her. “We got this, sweet pea. Yeah?”

She forced her answering smile to match his. She would not ruin this moment for him. “Yeah.”

The spotlight hit them and they walked to the center of the stage while Deacon and the Sons of Nashville played the first few measures of their newest song, “Native Son,” which would become Clay's campaign theme song. Clay walked to a microphone set front center stage. The audience was still going wild but calmed as the music trailed off to a soft murmur.

Clay spoke into the mic. “Hello, America. My name is Clayton Barron and I
will
be the next President of the United States.”

The place erupted as music and video screens went into overdrive. Clay turned Georgie into his arms, dipped his head and kissed her, murmuring against her lips, “We're on our way, sweet pea.”

Eighteen

A
fter his speech, the music and video, after the confetti and balloons, and the cheers, life careened into the crazy zone. Clay's election team had set up a grueling schedule. He got only the weekend after his announcement with Georgie off. They went to her dad's ranch near Duncan. They ate grilled steaks and corn on the cob and charcoal baked potatoes. She slept in Clay's arms even though she shied away from doing so under her dad's roof. George just laughed and winked at Clay. And then the madness started first thing that next Monday morning.

Now, three months later, they'd been to Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina and more places in between. They'd appeared on morning shows, noon shows, afternoon shows from New York to Cedar Rapids to Seattle, crisscrossing the country east and west, north and south, numerous times. With many returns to the OU Medical Center for treatments. And now they were in Pittsburgh for a televised debate. His advance team was the best in the business, but Georgie remained the center of his media team. She still wrote his speeches, putting his thoughts into eloquent, heartfelt words. And the campaign process—the grueling hours, travel and constant scrutiny—was chewing her up, though it hadn't spit her out yet.

She'd grown pale, with circles under her eyes. She'd lost some weight—enough that she'd had to supplement her wardrobe to disguise that her clothes hung off her now. The doctor had changed the chemical cocktail to something far more potent. And he'd added radiation. When Clay heard her crying softly behind the bathroom door of their hotel suite, he knew the time had come.

He didn't knock, he just eased the door open. Georgie stood staring at the hank of hair in her hand, tears streaking her ashen cheeks. “Sweet pea?”

Her green eyes met his in the mirror before dropping to her hand. “I can't do this,” she whispered.

He stepped to her, wrapped his arms around her shoulders, crossing them over her chest and kissed the top of her head. “I know, love. I know. I should have sent you home sooner. Glen will fly to Oklahoma with you tomorrow. You can stay with Jolie and Cord.”

She shook her head. “I want to go home, Clay. To Dad's.”

“Okay, baby. Okay. That's good. Glen will be there to drive you back and forth to the city for your appointments. You can go into the campaign office when you feel up to it. The troops will love to see you.”

“I'm sorry.”

His eyes narrowed as he stared at their reflection. “For what?”

“For...this.” She held up her hand. “For...everything.”

Nothing about this situation was right. He wanted to howl in the face of the unfairness of it all. To beat his fists against the wall of gruesome reality they faced. His mother had lost her hair. His mother had turned into a shadow. And then she'd given up. He'd lost her. Cord and Chance had lost her. She'd left them alone with their father and he'd never forgiven her for that.

Clay shut down his memories and shoved steel into his spine. Georgie wasn't his mother. He'd see her through this. She wasn't a quitter. She'd fight and win. For him. For them.

“Shut up, Georgie.” She blanched at his angry order. “You don't have a damn thing to apologize for.” He tightened his arms and gentled his tone. “Jeez, sweet pea, you're the strongest person I know. I've watched the toll our schedule is taking on you, but I'm greedy. I want—and need—you beside me.”

He inhaled and turned her in his arms so they were face-to-face. “You are beautiful and strong and intelligent and you light up my world. You don't
ever
apologize for being you, Georgie. Not to me, not to anyone. Yeah?”

A smile—an expression he hadn't seen much of lately—tugged one corner of her mouth and he bent to kiss it. “Yeah, you got it.”

He kissed her again, deeper this time, with a hint of tongue teasing her lips. “Put on something comfortable, love. We're doing room service tonight.”

Later, as she slept safe in his arms, Clay lay awake staring out the sheer curtains toward the Pittsburgh skyline. His phone pinged softly and he reached for it to read the text from Boone.

Plane on standby for am flight. Team set for briefing 11am. Arrive Peterson Center, U of Pitt, 6 pm. Debate goes live at 8. Georgie's tough. She'll be fine.

That last bit caused a brief smile. Clay didn't want to send her home. Not alone. Not without him. But he had to. She understood. He hit the call button on his phone and when Boone answered, he whispered instructions.

“Rearrange my schedule. I want to be in Oklahoma as much as possible and I'm damn sure going to be there whenever she has a treatment.”

“Done, cuz.”

And that was it. He could now settle his mind and sleep.

* * *

Two weeks later Clay was back in Oklahoma City, chafing at the delay in getting to Duncan to see Georgie. He'd arrived early that morning but the car that met him whisked him directly to Barron Tower where he was directed to the conference room for a business meeting. So here he stood.

Clay glanced at his brothers. Cord and Chance wore sympathetic expressions. Chase looked bored and Cash appeared angry, an emotion that seemed to ride his little brother harder each passing day. Their old man lounged in the chair at the far end of the table. This was new and different—and didn't bode well. Normally, Cyrus stormed in at the last minute, full of bark and belligerence.

Clay spread his feet, crossed his arms over his chest and braced for the volleys coming his way.

“What the hell, Clay?” Cash said.

He said nothing, ignoring Cash, though worry niggled at the back of his mind as he continued staring at his father. When had Cash become the old man's lap dog? Clay would have to discuss the situation with Cord and Chance when this
intervention
was over.

“You just going to stand there?” Cash pushed out of his chair and tried to intimidate him by leaning over the table. “You're weak, Clay. Weak and stupid.”

“When did you learn to heel to the old man's whistle, Cash?” Chance dropped his question into the frigid silence smothering the room.

Clay still didn't acknowledge his brothers, keeping his gaze focused on his father. The tactic worked when Cyrus erupted from his chair and stalked toward him. Clay stood taller than the old man and he used that to his advantage, gazing down, expression implacable.

“You listen to me, boy. I raised you for this. I groomed you from the first breath you took to be the damn president. I hired people to take care of your announcement, to put the package together. I had your PAC organized. And what the hell did you do? Ignored everything. You spouted some idiotic nonsense that barely blipped on the polls. I'm running things, Clayton, so don't you forget it. You don't have time to be running back here like a whipped puppy. You need to be out there winnin' primary votes.”

Cyrus stabbed him in the chest with his index finger and Clay fought the urge to grab it and twist.

“These are the rules. You don't fire people I hire for you. And you damn sure don't hide here at home in the middle of a campaign pantin' after that sickly, no-account woman. You're gonna be president. You better damn well act like it.” Cyrus, red-faced and sputtering, jabbed him again. “You need to act like a candidate. I've hired that advance team to work the primary states for you. You should be out there pressin' the flesh, you fool. They've scheduled appearances for you every day from now until the convention. You don't have any damn time to waste on that...woman. Cut her loose. Now. We'll figure a way so it looks like she left you. That'll get you some sympathy.”

Clay clenched his teeth, but didn't say anything. Was his father that crazy? Sympathy? He'd come off looking like a total jerk, not to mention that staying with Georgie was not up for debate. Loosening the fists he'd made, he didn't back away. “Here're
my
rules, old man. Don't hire people for me if you don't want them fired. I run my own campaign. I was in double digits the week after my announcement, with the package
my
team put together. I know what I'm doing.”

His father cut him off. “Coulda fooled me, boy. Spendin' all your time with that woman. She's dyin', just like your mother. She's bad news and only gonna mess you up. She can't do any of her jobs—in your bed or out of it—and you're thinkin' with the wrong part of your anatomy when it comes to her.” Cyrus pushed past, headed for the door. “Get rid of her, Clay. Or I will.”

Disgusted, Clay headed after him, but was stopped when Cash grabbed his arm. “Don't push him on this, Clay. You won't like the consequences.”

He stared at his youngest brother and his voice dropped to a menacing whisper. “Is that a threat, Cashion?” He stepped closer, until they were eye to eye. “If you, or anyone else, so much as looks at Georgie wrong—”

Cash snarled, “You're as bad as those two.” He jerked his thumb toward Cord and Chance. “Going soft over some woman. I never figured you to be this big a fool, Clay.”

His fist formed and he swung before he had any conscious awareness of his action, but the forward momentum was stopped when Cord grabbed his arm and Chance pushed Cash out of range.

“Get out, Cash.” Chance stared their brother down. “I don't know what bee climbed up your butt, but we're getting damn tired of it.” He manhandled Cash toward the door and pushed him out. He glanced toward Chase. “You have a clue what's wrong with him?”

Chase just shook his head as Cord blew out a laugh with a wry grin. “Well, that could've been worse.”

Boone appeared in the doorway and tilted his head down the corridor. “It is.”

Clay stepped out in time to see Georgie disappearing into the elevator. “Did she hear?” At Boone's nod, more than a few expletives escaped. He needed to fix this.

Chance rubbed his forehead. “This is my fault. I had Glen drive Georgie up to meet you here because I thought this meeting concerned the family trust. Had no idea the old man would ambush you. Call Glen, tell him to wait so you can go after her.”

Clay grabbed his phone but before he could call, Sylvia Camden appeared and snatched it.

“No time. You have to be at KWTV in twenty minutes for makeup. The interview with CBS was moved up.” She tucked Clay's phone in her pocket. “She'll be fine. She's a professional. She needs some time to process. She knows how important these appearances are. Now come with me.”

Boone nodded in reluctant agreement. “Glen will take her home, get her settled. You can call her later, go down tomorrow after the donor dinner tonight. You have to make this appearance, cuz. You know that.”

Clay let himself be swayed. His head knew his team was right but his heart said they were so very wrong. He cared for her. Needed her. But a part of him also admitted having her home while he was on the stump was almost a relief. That didn't make him his father. He wasn't walking away from her. She needed treatments and rest and the healing being home could bring. Things would be fine. He'd see her tomorrow, hold her in his arms and remind them both of what they meant to each other. One more day wouldn't matter. Or so he told himself.

* * *

That one more day had turned into two, and then more because the pressure of the campaign kept him away—at least that's what he'd told himself. Then he'd flown to Miami for a fund-raising dinner and Giselle was there, looking cool and elegant, and...friendly. For the paparazzi. When he saw the stories and pictures, he'd called Georgie. She didn't answer. He'd tried to call later but she'd blocked his number.

He'd finally dropped everything and come home to see her. He'd driven to her dad's ranch, found her in the barn but when he tried to kiss her hello, Georgie pulled away from him.

“Don't, Senator.”

“Senator? When did we go back to being so formal, sweet pea?”

“When I realized I'm a liability and just an employee. Only I'm not even that anymore. I quit.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, looking at him as haughty as an English duchess. “I'm not a starry-eyed girl anymore, Senator. You remember her, right? The one who lived in your campaign office. The one who moved to DC your second term and lived on ramen noodles so she could work for you. Yeah, she's pretty much dead and gone now. So is the girl who got swept off her feet like some heroine in a romantic movie. What an idiot she was.”

“Georgie—”

“Georgie what? I love you, Clay. With my whole heart. Have for ten years. I believed you. I believed
in
you. What a complete and utter fool I turned out to be. Pretty sad for someone with an IQ of a hundred and fifty-seven.” She leaned against the horse she'd been brushing, her cheek resting against his arched neck as she smoothed her hand along the animal's muscled chest. “I thought we had something special. Don't get me wrong. I don't think you truly love me—you've never said the words. I'm so not your type and I'm sure not good enough to be first lady, but I thought you cared. At least a little.” She sniffled and rubbed her sleeve across her nose. “You said you cared. Said you wanted to take care of me, anyway. I guess your father was right. You need a woman like Giselle. Not someone as sick as a dog who probably won't see next Christmas.”

Clay didn't know what to say. This woman had always given him the words to speak. Clueless, he didn't understand why she was having a meltdown.

“Go away, Clay. You don't belong here.”

He reached to touch her, but she ducked away, sliding under the horse's neck to peer at him from the other side. “Just go. I don't have the time or energy for your games, Senator.”

“This isn't a game, Georgie.”

She laughed, a deep, rolling burst of sound that quickly edged toward hysteria. “You're right, Senator. It's not. It's life or death. Mine. Go. You're not welcome here.”