The Boss and His Cowgirl

by Silver James

  He was in his late fifties, balding and fit, with a contained energy about him that filled the atmosphere with static electricity. His handshake was no-nonsense, his words blunt. Georgie liked him immediately.

  After the exam he opened her files on a rolling metal stand and studied them for a long moment. When he looked up and met her gaze, she reminded herself to breathe.

  “If you wish to try to save the breast, the least invasive treatment includes chemotherapy to shrink the tumors before we try a lumpectomy. If the chemo doesn’t work, we’ll try radiation. I want to make the tumors as small as possible before we do the surgery.” The doctor watched, waiting for her response. When she simply nodded, he continued. “If that doesn’t work, or it spreads again, we need to consider a mastectomy.” He had a slight accent and his eyes were kind as he explained.

  The doctor glanced at her file again, and when his gaze met hers, she couldn’t breathe. She knew what he would say next, and to hide from his hateful words, she hid in her memory of last night. Of Clay’s hands cupping her breasts, of his mouth on her, teasing her puckered nipples. She relived the warmth shooting straight to her core, the way her body responded to his touch, the way his eyes glowed with pleasure as he touched her. Could she deprive him of that? Deprive herself?

  “Ms. Dreyfus, I would recommend the mastectomy now, followed by both chemo and radiation to make sure we’ve caught it all. Your mammogram last year was clear. This is a particularly aggressive form of cancer. You already have a new tumor forming that was small enough it didn’t show on the mammogram you took last month.”

  No. She didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to listen. She stuck mental fingers in her ears and sang la-la-las in her head.

  “Ms. Dreyfus? Georgeanne?”

  She refocused her gaze on him. “Not yet.” Her voice croaked the words. “Last resort. Okay?”

  His lips flattened out as he pressed them together. “I don’t—”

  “My body, Dr. Nassad.”

  “Yes, it is. But I think you should discuss this with your partner. I understand losing your breasts is not an easy decision, but do you wish to gamble with your life?”

  “My life, too.” Anger swirled around her. Why was she acting this way? Shock? Fear? Yes, both of those. But she wasn’t afraid of losing her life; she was afraid of losing Clay. Yes, he’d promised to stay by her side, but after his mother’s ordeal...and the way he loved her breasts? She couldn’t make that decision. Not yet. Not until every last possible cure was tried.

  She stared at Dr. Nassad. “We try conservative first. And not a word about this to my partner.”

  The doctor’s disapproval was evident in his expression and body language. “I can refer you to another—”

  “No. I like you, Dr. Nassad. And I trust you, even though it seems I don’t. I just know that I have to try alternatives first.”

  “Stubborn woman.”

  The smile she directed toward his scowl was wistful. “Yes, sir. I am. My way first. We’ll continue to discuss the outcomes, keeping all options open. Okay?”

  His scowl deepened, but he nodded. “No, not okay, but we will do as you wish.” He scribbled on a prescription pad and gave her further instructions before leading her to his office. He shook hands with Clay, offered more scowls directed at Georgie and shooed them out.

  Their next stop was the in-hospital pharmacy where she got the drugs making up her first round of chemo. The information sheet was ten printed pages, including six listing side effects. She took her first pill before they left the hospital complex.

  By dinnertime, food was the last thing on her mind. Figured. She was part of that .2% of patients who had an immediate reaction to the drug cocktail. Clay fed her ice chips and sips of ginger ale and she worried about how long he would put up with her.

  “Don’t go there.”

  She blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

  “I know you, Georgie. I recognize the panic in your eyes. Not gonna happen, sweet pea. I’m with you. No matter what. Understand?”

  She stared, her vision blurred by unshed tears. “Startin’ to.”

  “Good. Now, we’re going to bed. I’m going to hold you in my arms and not only tell you how beautiful you are, but show you until you get it.”

  * * *

  Georgie stared at Cassie and Jolie. She was an only child. She could count her close girlfriends on one hand. These two women enfolded her like they were her lifelong BFFs. She’d tried to cancel their Girls’ Day Out, but they showed up at the door and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Cassie put her hands on her hips, her expression stubborn. “We’re headed to JJ Nails to see Jacky and Jessica because they’re the best. And Tommy gives the most amazing pedicures in the metroplex. Don’t argue. You need to be pampered.”

  Jolie looked up from reading the medical literature. “You definitely need pampering. We’ll take it easy. Plus, the massage chairs are awesome! You sit and get the works while Tommy does his magic. Then, when we have pretty feet, Jacky and Jessica take over.” She offered a tentative smile. “Having acrylics will help, hon. Your nails will get brittle from the chemo drugs.”

  “And you’ll look gorgeous tomorrow standing next to Clay on stage. I got us appointments with the top three stylists at Salon Beau Monde. Because, girl, we can’t look like poor relations standing next to you!” Cassie wore a huge grin even as she eased Georgie into the passenger seat of her Highlander. Jolie climbed into the backseat as Cassie jumped into the driver’s.

  By lunch, with glossy, French-manicured nails and toes, Georgie felt well enough to try a light lunch of homemade noodle soup and croissants at La Baguette. The afternoon consisted of discussions about highlights, haircuts and other beauty “trauma,” but by the time the girls deposited her back at Clay’s, Georgie’s stomach had settled and the warmth of Clay’s gaze as he surveyed her from head to toe made all the hassle worth it.

  “Feel up to going out for dinner?”

  Invigorated, she nodded. “I do.”

  A little grin hovered at the corner of Clay’s mouth. “I kinda like the way you say that.”

  Flustered, Georgie blushed as Clay leaned in to kiss the tip of her nose. “Food and then bed. Tomorrow is a long day.”

  * * *

  Friday. Day three of her drug regime and Georgie was feeling optimistic. She’d managed a real breakfast and coffee. She’d suffered through hair and makeup. She’d acquiesced to the demands of the stylist on her outfit—a softly draped dress in a muted tangerine color that she hated until she was wearing it and her makeup had been applied. The big fight came over leaving her glasses off.

  “I can’t see without them.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You don’t need to see. Better yet, contacts.”

  She glared at the stylist and managed not to stick out her tongue as Clay arrived and ended the argument by picking up the black frames and placing them on her face, followed by a mostly chaste kiss that didn’t mess up her lipstick.

  By the one-hour mark until airtime, the entire family had arrived. The five Barron boys looked like fashion models in suits, starched shirts and designer ties. Every one of them wore Western boots. Jolie and Cassie also wore designer duds—Cassie in a tailored pencil skirt and jacket with slight Western touches and Jolie in a crepe wrap dress with a floaty skirt. CJ chafed at the miniature suit he’d been coerced into wearing.

  The Tate brothers were just as handsome when they arrived en masse with their mother, Katherine. Deacon Tate and the Sons of Nashville had been in a separate room running through the songs they planned to play when they took the stage at the thirty-minute mark.

  Cyrus held court on the opposite side of the luxurious green room and Georgie did her utmost to avoid him. An occasional chill would steal over her and she’d glance over to find his malevolent glar
e focused on her. She could do nothing but wait for the other shoe to drop. And it would. Cyrus was getting his way with the announcement, but sooner or later, he’d come after her. A man wearing headphones around his neck and carrying an iPad ducked into the room and asked Clay and Chase to step outside.

  Jolie and Cassie were sitting with their husbands, trying to keep CJ entertained and clean as he raided the buffet laid out for the VIP guests. The governor was there, along with her entourage. Several state and US legislators were there to show support—and appear on the stage behind Clay, ready to hitch their wagons to his rising star.

  A wave of nausea washed over Georgie and she headed toward the bathroom, just in case. Cyrus hijacked her before she got there.

  “We need to talk,” he snarled.

  “No, we don’t.” She tried to step around him, but he cut her off.

  “I’ll give you five hundred thousand dollars.”

  Georgie rocked back and swayed, unused to the tall, skinny heels of her shoes. “Beg pardon?”

  “Quit and walk away from my son. Half a million dollars.”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or scream. “Are you serious?”

  “A woman like you? It’s a generous offer.”

  “A woman like me?” Her voice rose as adrenaline tingled all the way to her fingertips. She was vaguely aware of a flurry of movement behind her. “And what kind of woman am I?”

  “You aren’t worthy of Clayton. He should have stayed with Giselle. You’re plain. Too plump. Those glasses are hideous. And you’re just an employee. I thought I taught him better. You screw the hired help but don’t move in with them. My son will be the next President of the United States and he needs a real woman at his side.”

  Cyrus’s words felt like vicious hooks snagging into her heart and jerking. It hurt, but she was so mad, she didn’t care. “Hired help? Unworthy? Real woman?” Her eyes narrowed and her mouth pursed into a snarl. She stepped into Cyrus’s space and jammed her index finger into his chest, jabbing him to punctuate every point. “You listen to me, you misogynistic, dried-up old piece of manure. I’ve worked my butt off for your son. I’ve covered him with the media when you and your other sons showed up on the front pages of every tabloid in the world. I am more than hired help and I dang sure am worthy of Clay. I might not be a size three, but I don’t consider some skinny model a real woman. A real woman looks like me. A real woman stands beside her man. She supports him and loves him and takes care of him.” She stopped for a breath, but an arm sliding around her middle kept her from launching into part two of her tirade.

  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.”

  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.