The Boss and His Cowgirl(62)
“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.