The Boss and His Cowgirl(59)

“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?”