The Boss and His Cowgirl (16 page)

Twenty

C
lay stayed with Georgie on the ranch, working toward redemption. He took her horseback riding when she felt strong enough. He held her cuddled on his lap in the big chair facing the wide window when she didn't. He kept her warm when her body shook with chills. He kissed her bald head and told her she was more beautiful than that Irish singer from the '80s who'd shaved her head. He told her he loved her. Every chance he got.

He talked to her, using his words, not hers. He opened his heart to her, whispering plans for the future—
their
future. He didn't mention surgery. The decision was hers. He did his best to give her hope and love, and a reason to stay with him. And he bought a ring. On a day between treatments when her color was better, when she held down breakfast, when her eyes weren't dulled with pain, he led her outside to a saddled horse.

Clay mounted, maneuvered to the edge of the porch and pulled her across the saddle in front of him. At a slow walk, they rode out and, after a short circuit of her dad's ranch, Clay guided the horse to the swath of lush grass near the lake. A picnic was set out there, arranged with the help of Cassie and Jolie, who snuck in after he and Georgie left the house. Dismounting carefully, he reached up and gathered her into a princess carry and strode to the blanket stretched across the grass.

The sun edged toward the horizon, the light soft as sunset approached. He offered her cold watermelon. He offered her cheese and crackers. He opened and poured two crystal flutes of sparkling grape juice. Then he positioned himself on one knee and took her hand.

“You know I love you, yeah?” He watched her expression, searching for a flicker of doubt. There was none when she answered.

“Yes. I know. And you know I love you, right?”

Finding he could breathe again, he nodded. “Right.” He leaned forward and kissed her, a chaste brush of his lips across hers. They hadn't had sex in weeks and he didn't care. She was too fragile and that was okay. Holding her, sleeping with her in his arms, was even more satisfying than the bells and whistles of climaxes. He finally understood love, understood “for better or worse, in sickness and in health.”

She sat with her back to the lake, and the sun kissed the treetops on the other side, even as it painted a gilded path across the water. Georgie was bathed in a golden aura and she'd never looked more beautiful. Holding her hand, he reached into the picnic basket and retrieved a box. With a move he'd practiced until it was flawless, he opened the jewelry box with one hand and hooked the one-carat, emerald-cut diamond solitaire with his index finger.

“I'm not waiting any longer. I want to spend the rest of our lives together. Georgeanne Ruth Dreyfus, will you marry me?”

Georgie stared, tears glittering like the sun dancing on the placid water behind her. She whispered one word and the breath he'd been holding rushed out.

“Yes.”

He gathered her into his arms, kissed her with gentle lips that turned demanding, his tongue seeking hers, his hands careful, but clear in their declaration of how much he desired her.

“Thank you, sweet pea.”

* * *

Clay didn't leave her often, but his numbers were falling. She fretted. Georgie believed in him, was convinced he'd be the next president. And she forced him back on the campaign trail with an argument—started by her—that left her exhausted. He didn't like being apart, scared he was missing minutes and seconds with her that he'd never get back. He shared those fears with Cord and Chance, with Boone and Hunt. He lay awake, terrified he'd get a call saying he'd missed it all.

He argued with the old man. He brooded. And he replayed Georgie's parting words over and over.

Don't you get it? This is bigger than me. Than you. Than us. This is the whole country, Clay. They need you. You can fix it. You can make it better just like you fixed my heart and made me whole.

So here he was in St. Louis, staring at his reflection in a makeup mirror. Georgie's words weren't the only ones he heard.

When it comes time for the acceptance speech at the party's convention, it better be you givin' it, boy.

His father's words remained scorched in his memory. The makeup girl babbled about his perfect hair, perfect face, perfect everything, until he wanted to growl and jerk away. He didn't need to look at the text on his phone, that message also seared into his psyche. Leave it to his sister-in-law to get right to the point.

The girl reached to comb his hair and he snagged her wrist. “Enough. You're done.” She sputtered, but left him alone in the dressing room. Unable to help himself, he reread Cassie's text.

Georgie scheduled for surgery tomorrow morning. It better be you sitting beside her bed when she wakes up.

Surgery. He knew what that meant. Chemo and radiation had failed. The doctor had finally talked sense into Georgie. But she hadn't told him. He swallowed the anger. Georgie should have told him. He knew what she was doing—trying to protect him, protect the campaign. But she should have told him to come because nothing was more important than her.

Dammit, this was the last-ditch effort to save Georgie's life. She'd all but shoved him away, refused to talk to him about her treatment. Not that he could blame her. After what his old man said about her, knowing about his own experience with his mother, she had every right to be skittish, despite the fact she wore his engagement ring.

He had a speech to give—an important speech that would make or break him before the convention. But his heart wasn't in it. His heart wasn't even in the same building. It was with the woman he loved who was facing surgery without him because she was protecting his damn political career.

* * *

Clay stared out over the sea of faces, those beyond the first few rows nothing but blurry smudges in the darkened auditorium. Out of habit, he glanced into the wings but the figure he sought was no longer there because she was alone in Oklahoma facing a life-changing event. Inhaling, he continued the speech, saying the words Georgie had written for him.

“I met a man the other day, a man who served this country in three wars, a man who wasn't shy about his opinion. ‘You know what I think, son?' he asked. ‘No, sir, but I'd like to,' I replied. ‘I'll tell ya what's wrong with the government. It's politicians. We got too many of 'em. We don't need any more of them durn politicians. What we need is more legislators. Folks who understand why they've got them fancy desks up there in the Capitol. We need smart folks workin' for the people. Not the people working for all them politicians. Here's the thing, son. Us folks out here in the vast middle of the country? We ain't got time for jawin' and fancy words. We're plain-speakin'. You gotta say what you mean and mean what you say—'”

Clay glanced down at the cards on the podium. He never used a teleprompter when Georgie wrote his speeches, as she had this one, but those last words struck him dumb. Damn but he missed her. He stared out across the audience and then glanced once more to the wings of the stage. No shadowy figure stood there mouthing the words with him. No Georgie. And there might not be a Georgie after tomorrow.

He had to breathe around the ache in his chest and he realized he'd been silent long enough that the crowd was growing restless. Clearing his throat to swallow the lump that had formed there, he continued.

“Some time ago, someone important to me was faced with a decision. She didn't consult me. She didn't ask my opinion. She made a choice and when I found out, her decision was one I didn't like. Now it's my turn to make a decision. It might be one she doesn't like, but it's the right one for me. For her. For us.”

Furtive activity at the edge of the stage drew his attention. Boone stood there, hands shoved in his front pockets, watching with a slightly twisted grin on his face. It was the man and woman—the hacks hired by Cyrus to replace Georgie—who were waving frantically to get his attention. He ignored them and turned back to the audience.

“Thank you for coming and good night.” Clay swiveled on his heel and headed for Boone. By the time he'd crossed the stage, Hunt was standing there, as well.

“Where to, boss?”

Clay studied his security chief for a long moment. “Where is she?”

Hunt deferred to his brother. Boone tucked his chin in a short nod of approval as he answered, “OU Med. They checked her in tonight.”

“Then that's where we're going.”

Thing One and Thing Two swarmed him.

“You can't!” From her.

“You didn't finish that travesty of a speech.” From him.

Clay almost laughed when Hunt caught his left elbow and Boone snagged his right arm and blocked the two from reaching him. Hunt had his phone up to his ear issuing quiet orders into it. One of the organizers came puffing up.

“Senator Barron? Is there a problem, sir?” The man wasn't quite wringing his hands, unlike the Twit Twins.

“A family emergency.”

“Oh. Oh! Your fiancée. Of course. I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

Get out of my way for starters
, Clay thought. Rather than voicing it, he smiled but kept walking. “We have it under control, thank you. Perhaps you could draft someone to fill the rest of the time set aside for my keynote?”

“Oh! Yes, yes, of course. I should do that.” The man peeled away and huffed back the way they'd come.

As they reached the SUV idling at the side entrance, Clay turned to the two handlers. They'd fussed and dive-bombed him like mockingbirds with a cat in sight of their nest the whole way. “I've wanted to say this since the day you first appeared in my office. You're fired.”

* * *

Clay, wearing exhaustion like a wrinkled suit, sat next to the hospital bed watching the woman he loved beyond reason. Her skin, paper-thin and translucent, felt like dry silk beneath the one finger he used to caress her arm. Georgie opened her eyes and when they widened in sleepy surprise, he smiled.

“Hello, sweet pea.”

“Clay?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you really here?”

“Oh, yeah, love. I'm really here. Not going anywhere.”

“But...you can't be here.”

His brow knit as he stared at her. “I'm here. There's no
can't
about it.”

“But...your speech.”

“Given.”

“You're supposed to be on your way to Denver.”

“Nope. I'm supposed to be right here.”

“Clay!”

“Georgie.”

Color suffused her pale cheeks and the readout of her blood pressure on the machine next to her bed spiked.

“The campaign!”

“Is over.”

Her mouth gaped open. She closed it. It gaped again. She breathed a shocked question. “What?”

“I'm done.”

“But the polls—”

“Don't mean jack.” He carefully took her hand. “I'm out, Georgie. I'm not running.”

She blinked, eyes going wide. “You can't do that.”

“I can and did.”

“But—”

“Shush, Georgie.”

“But—”

He leaned in and kissed her before she could finish speaking. He spoke against her lips. “No buts. Just listen, okay?”

When she nodded and whispered, “Okay,” he straightened. “You've always been my heart, Georgie. And your words? Your words make me want to be the man you think I am. I haven't been that man lately, but I'm going to be.”

“Clay—”

“Shhh. I'm talking, sweet pea.” He lifted the hand he was holding and brought it to his lips for a kiss. “As president, I have eight years.
Only
eight years. I can do a lot of good, but the next person who steps in behind me can undo everything I've put into place.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Your words last night, they hit home and made sense. Do you remember the words you gave me to say?”

Her expression morphed into one of confusion so he quoted the words back to her. “I'll tell ya what's wrong with the government. It's politicians. We got too many of 'em. We don't need any more of them durn politicians. What we need is more legislators. Folks who understand why they've got them fancy desks up there in the Capitol. We need smart folks workin' for the people. Not the people working for all them politicians. Remember now?”

At her nod, he continued. “You're right. I don't want to be a politician. I want to be a legislator. I can't do that as president. I can by staying in the Senate. So that's what I'm doing—staying in the Senate.”

His thumb brushed the tear trickling down her cheek before he kissed her. “I love you, Georgie Dreyfus, with everything I have. With everything I am. I want to make you proud.”

“You do. Every day of my life, Clayton Barron. You do.”

* * *

Georgie was coming home today. Clay could barely contain himself. He hated hospitals. Hated the sounds and the smells and sadness that permeated the very air. He waited outside her room while a nurse performed a final check of Georgie's vitals and changed bandages. He'd already participated in that routine, and had been schooled in all things aftercare.

Finished, the nurse slipped out, offering him a smile and an arm squeeze as she passed. “Take care of our girl,” she murmured.

“Always.”

He walked into the room. Georgie couldn't get dressed until the final consult with the surgeon. Jolie had packed clothes for her, but Clay had his own ideas. He set the box he'd brought in her lap as he bent to kiss her.

“Can't wait to have you home, sweet pea.”

Georgie stared at the box before raising her eyes to his.

“Open it, love.”

Her fingers trembled, rustling the tissue paper filling the gold-foil box. Her throat worked, contracting as she swallowed. Her gaze barely lingered after colliding with his.