The Boss and His Cowgirl (15 page)

She pushed away from the horse's side and strode toward the barn's exit, leaving Clay standing flatfooted. As she slipped between the doors, she whipped off the baseball cap and the bandanna beneath it. Her once luxurious hair—the silken fall he loved to run his fingers through—was gone. Only peach fuzz remained. The potent cocktail of chemo and radiation she'd endured hoping to save her breasts had taken its toll. Just as it had with his mother.

Heat flashed through his body followed by a chill so frigid he couldn't breathe. Clay wanted to fall to his knees in the dirt and empty the contents of his stomach. Georgie didn't look back, didn't see how she'd devastated him. Instead, she marched off, head high, shoulders unbowed, her long-legged stride as graceful as a Thoroughbred racehorse's.

He watched her walk away and in that moment, Clay came to two realizations—both of which paralyzed him. He was as despicable as his old man had ever been, and he'd lost the only woman he'd ever love.

Nineteen

“S
o what are you going to do about it, Clay?” Cord, as always, functioned as the family's Jiminy Cricket.

Chance watched him, his expression shuttered, but anger simmered beneath his poker face. “It's been a month, Clay. She won't take calls from any of us. The girls drove down. Evidently, she was out in the barn when they got there. By the time her dad walked them down, she'd saddled up a horse and taken off. They waited all day. She didn't come back.”

Clay stared at his brothers, remembering that first family intervention when everyone had ganged up on Chance, and the next when everyone but Chance had lined up against Cord. Both of his brothers had found women who loved them. Women who made them better men. In all honesty, Georgie was his touchstone. She settled him. Balanced him. Kept him centered in the crazy political storm that made up his world.

“You need to face the truth, bud,” Cord chimed in.

The truth. Yes. Truth was something he'd been running from lately. He'd screwed up. Royally.

“You know who and what she is, right?” Chance's expression softened. “Because we do. She writes the words you wish you could say. She puts them in your mouth and makes not only the world believe them, but makes you believe them, too.”

“She's my heart.” Had he admitted that out loud? “But I'm not the man for her. I'm not good enough. Not for her.” He forced down the bile burning his esophagus. “God. I don't deserve her. I...aw, hell. I didn't go after her. Not until it was too late. I ground her feelings into the dirt and then just let her walk away from me because I didn't know what to do.”

Chance, ever the voice of reason—except now—gripped his shoulder. “What have you done?” His harsh voice grated in Clay's ears.

Swamped by self-loathing and helplessness, he stared at his brothers. “You saw the pictures from Miami, of Giselle kissing me?” Their expressions darkened with anger. “She was just there. For the speech. Cyrus's people set it up. Made sure of the photo op. She kissed me. I didn't kiss her back.” He pushed his fingers through his hair, leaving it tousled. “And I didn't call Georgie to tell her to brace for the publicity. By the time I got around to it, she refused to talk to me, then blocked my calls.”

“Dammit, Clay.” Chance's curse came out as a whisper.

“That's not the worst.” His brothers leaned closer. “She refused a mastectomy.”

His announcement was met with silence. Chance and Cord exchanged uneasy glances before their gazes refocused on him. Chance pulled him to a chair and pushed him down to sit. A moment later they sank into their own chairs.

“Tell us.”

Clay couldn't face them, despite the compassion in Chance's voice. He stared at the tips of his boots, searching for the words. Georgie. She put the words in his mouth. Always. But not this time. He inhaled and held his breath for what seemed like hours, but was only seconds. His lungs burned before he finally let the air out. He still couldn't look at them but his mouth opened and words tumbled out.

“Y'all were so little. Hell, I was only eight. One day Mom was fine and the next, it seemed like she'd faded away to nothing. The old man was never around. You know how he is. Couldn't stand to be around sickness and Mom was. Horribly, terribly sick. The doctors did a lumpectomy because the old man—” His voice broke.

Chance's expression turned harsh. “He told her she wouldn't be a woman if she had a mastectomy, right?”

Clay nodded, unable to voice the affirmative as his rage built. He swallowed around the anger and continued, his voice flat. “She tried everything. Chemo. Radiation. Homeopathic. She went to every crackpot loonytoon who hung out a sign promising a cure. She lost her hair. Her skin was paper thin and every time one of us hugged her, we left bruises.”

Clay had to stop speaking, his nose and throat burning with tears he'd never been allowed to shed. Real men didn't cry, right? The gospel according to Cyrus Barron. His brothers waited as Chance placed a quiet hand on Clay's clenched fists and Cord gripped his shoulder. With their added strength, he found a way to continue.

“I brushed her hair until it all fell out. I held her head while she puked her guts up. I begged her not to die. Not to leave me alone with the old man because I swore I'd kill him.” He finally glanced up but his brothers' faces swam through a wet prism. “She made me promise to take care of you two. To love you like she couldn't anymore.”

“You made sure we got to say goodbye.” Cord squeezed his shoulder. “I remember her getting so thin, she looked like she was fading away. And I remember the scarves she wore.”

“I remember that hideous wig. Freaked me right the hell out. I thought it was some crazy animal, alive and sitting on Mom's head.” Chance lifted one shoulder in a shrug as the corner of his mouth twisted into a wry slash. “Hey, I was only four.”

“Man, those scarves. I bought them with my allowance. I wanted to make her smile so I bought the most colorful ones I could lay my hands on.” A dry chuckle erupted before Clay could call it back. “They were god-awful.”

Chance punched his shoulder lightly. “I thought they made her look beautiful. But then anything was better than that damn wig.” He shuddered—an exaggerated move meant to bring a smile to Clay's face. It worked.

But his smile faded all too soon as reality smacked him upside the head again. “When Georgie told me? I lost it. But I never let on. She needed me. She wanted to come home so we came home.”

When he ran his hand through his hair again, it was shaking. “She talked to the doctor alone. I was right there but she didn't call me in for the consult. I found out later from her dad that the doctor recommended a mastectomy. She refused it. Because of me. Because of the campaign, I guess.”

“What the hell, Clay?” Cord stared at him.

“She didn't say anything beyond requesting a stop at the pharmacy for her prescriptions. But I didn't push for info. I wanted her with me. Taking pills? That meant she could travel with me. I told myself that chemo's not as bad now as it was back when Mom went through it. I wanted to believe it would work. It didn't. The radiation was harder on her. I watched her get sicker, but I didn't ask. I couldn't deal with it so I built up walls and ignored what was happening. When we were in Pittsburgh, I heard her crying, walked into the bathroom...”

He couldn't say the words, scrubbing his face with the heels of his hands instead. He hated himself, well and truly. “She was holding a hunk of her hair. I sent her home alone because I had the debate.” A series of raw cuss words erupted from his mouth. “I'm as big an ass as the old man. I royally screwed up and hurt the woman that is the best part of me.”

“Do you love her?”

He wasn't sure which brother asked, not that it mattered. The question was on the tip of both their tongues. He didn't even think about it. “I do. Yes.”

Chance pulled out his phone and dialed a number as he stood up and walked across the room. He was the master of hushed conversations. Moments later he turned around. “You need to tell her that, Clay. Boone says she had a treatment this morning. She'll be at her dad's ranch now.” When Clay didn't respond, he continued. “I'll call Cassie. We'll go with you.”

Staring at his younger brother, Clay wasn't sure he'd heard Chance correctly. “We?”

Cord nodded. “You don't think we'd let you do this alone, do you? Jolie and I are coming, too.”

Chance hauled Clay to his feet and hugged him tightly. “Family, Clay. The Barrons might be dysfunctional as hell, but we're learning.”

He couldn't speak, the lump in his throat tight and burning. Family. How in hell had his brothers figured it out when he'd been so clueless? He clung to Chance and felt Cord's arms wrap around them both.

“You were there for us, Clay, when we were growing up. You diverted the old man's attention and we owe you for that at the very least. Most of all, you're our brother and we love you. We'll get through this. All of us together.”

He blinked back tears and focused on Cord's face. His brother's expression radiated determination. And compassion. What Clay said next was something he'd never voiced aloud. “I love you guys.”

* * *

“You know he'll come back.” Her father sounded both patient and certain. “And you need to talk to him when he does. Georgie, he wasn't with that woman. She was just there. She jumped in and kissed him for the cameras. I'm positive that's the truth.” He hunkered down in front of her chair and cupped her cheeks. “You know I love you, right?” At her nod, he continued. “Don't be stubborn like your old dad, Georgie. Don't let your pride stop you from having the love of a lifetime.”

Georgie pulled her shoulders up to her ears and hunched deeper into the chair. “It's not like that. He doesn't love me. I can't stand in his way. He's going to be the president. I... His father's right. I wouldn't be a good first lady.” Tears gathered on her lashes and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. “I can't face him, Daddy. There's no magic wand to wave to make it all better.”

“When did you stop believing in magic, baby girl?”

“When the shadows got so dark I couldn't see any longer.”

“Aw, honey.”

“Don't, Dad. Just...don't. The doctors say a fifty-fifty chance.” A bittersweet smile formed on her face. “Today I feel half-dead.”

“Don't say that, Georgeanne. Don't you give up.” Her father pushed to his feet and stomped over to stare out the window. “Dang it. I hate this. I hate seein' you weak and pale. You were never sick as a kid. You'd be out there even when the winter wind was cold enough to steal your breath. I'd be out there workin', look up and there you'd be on top of ol' Lucky, movin' the cows to shelter.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “I remember one time in particular. You came runnin' in the house, your cheeks as red as apples, laughin' and hidin' a snowball behind your back. What happened to that little girl?”

“She grew up, Daddy. Grew up and went away. Do you still love what she left behind?”

“That's a hellava thing to ask me, girl! Of course I love you. I'm your father. No matter what.” He grabbed a pillow and punched it a couple of times before gently easing it behind Georgie's back. “Now, you listen to me, baby girl. You're gonna win this fight. And if you had a lick of sense in that way too smart head of yours, you'd call Clayton Barron and tell him to get his ass down here.”

“No.” Georgie pulled her sweater a little tighter around her shoulders. She was always cold these days. Her chair faced the window. She could see the lake where she'd learned to fish and had gone swimming with her horse on hot summer days. The afternoon sun flared just above the horizon, teasing the water with glittering fingers.

This was why she'd come home. Not to die, but to heal, surrounded by the place that
made
her. She was so scared these days. Afraid of saying goodbye to those she loved. Afraid of living the moments she had left. The look on Clay's face when she'd told him echoed in her dreams, a ghost she could neither touch nor exorcise.

Her dad dropped a kiss on her head. “Rest, baby girl. I love you.”

Georgie called after him, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the clomping of his boots. “I love you, too, Daddy.”

The glinting path of sunlight pulled her into the dream—the one she always reached for when the pain from the treatments got too bad.

The sun, sinking in the sky, spilled in the window and drenched Clay in shimmering gold. The light made a halo around him she knew he deserved, and he looked incredibly right mantled in the splendor. He was Oklahoma's favorite son, would be president one day soon. She admired him from afar, knowing she could never touch him, never share in the warmth of his golden glow. As she turned to walk away, he called her. And then she was in his sheltering arms, warm and safe. He dipped his head, his firm lips finding hers. She sighed, offering everything she had, everything she was, to him.

The wooden floor creaked and she startled awake. So she thought. A waking dream stood in front of her. Clay, bathed in the copper light of the setting sun. She blinked, then rubbed her eyes.

“I've missed you, sweet pea.”

“Why are you here?” She shaded her eyes against the glare. Clay stood there handsome and...perfect.

Clay squatted in front of her. “I'm here because you are, Georgie.”

“But...the campaign—”

“Can take place without me for a while.”

“You don't mean that.”

“Don't put words in my mouth, Georgie. You quit that job, remember?”

She was shocked for a moment, but caught the hint of a smile teasing the side of his mouth. Without considering the consequences, she touched his lips.

When he spoke, his breath teased her fingers. “I'm an idiot and a fool, Georgie. Can you forgive me? I've missed you more than words can say.” Clay leaned closer, brushed his lips against hers. “And I love you more than life.”

Unsure she'd heard correctly, she demanded, “Say that again.”

“I love you, Georgie. Please forgive me. Please love me back. I won't fail you again.”

“Is that a campaign promise, Senator?” Her voice was haughty and sarcastic.

“No, Georgeanne Dreyfus, that's a promise from my heart.”