The Boss and His Cowgirl(56)

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.”