The Boss and His Cowgirl(61)

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.”





Twenty

Clay 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.