The Boss and His Cowgirl(55)
Clay hauled her up against him and she could feel his silent laughter where her back pressed against his chest. She glanced back and grew flustered when she saw his brothers standing in a half-circle behind him.
“Dang, Clay,” Cord sputtered around a chuckle. “You do like ’em feisty, ol’ son.”
The man with the earphones stuck his head in the door. “Everyone to their places. National networks go live in five minutes.”
Cyrus evidently realized they had the entire room’s attention. He glared at Clay, his lips twisting into a feral snarl. “We’re done here but I’m not finished with you. We’ll discuss this without an audience.”
It was over, for now at least. Clay entwined his fingers with hers, and then led her out toward the stage entrance. Everyone else followed. As they approached, the music of Deacon’s hit song “Red Dirt Cowgirl” filled the air. The audience was singing along. The band occupied one corner of the stage, while risers covered the rest of the space. The “backdrop” people filed out while the last notes faded and the audience erupted into applause, whistles and screams.
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
After 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.”