A Barker Family Christmas (The Barker Triplets 3.50)

Chapter One

Three days until Christmas…

Bobbi Jo Barker chewed off her last good fingernail and grimaced as she glanced down at her hands. Wow. Not good. And it was all Shane Gallagher’s fault. Her sister Betty was going to have a cow when she saw the state of Bobbi’s fingers. Not exactly the right look for a bridesmaid.

Crap.

Another wave of ice hit the windowpane, and her head shot up, brows furrowed. At least she had a few more days until she’d have to deal with her sister. The Hollywood starlet was coming to town for the Christmas holiday with her fiancé, Beau Simon. And with only two days to go until their not-so-secret wedding on Christmas Eve, her sister was cutting it close.

But then, when had Betty Jo Barker ever done anything by the book? When had she ever gone for easy or proper or, you know, organized?

Whatever, Bobbi thought. She wasn’t worrying about it now. She had other things on her mind.

She leaned closer to the window and wiped her palms across the frosty panes. The storm was getting worse—swirling snow mixed with ice pellets—and in this part of Michigan, that was cause for concern. Made it hard to see. Made it hard to concentrate on anything besides the fact that Shane should have been back from the pharmacy nearly an hour ago.

She squinted, nose pressed against the cold glass, but she could barely see past the front step of the porch.

“Where the hell are you?” she muttered fiercely.

Blowing out a hot breath, she swore once more and the windows fogged up.

“He’s been gone a while. I told him I could wait until tomorrow for those damn pills.”

Bobbi turned from the window, tucking a dark piece of hair behind her ear as she attempted a smile. But it fell flat and she gave up. What was the point? She was worried and pissed off and not in the mood to pretend that everything was okay. Besides, her gramps could see through bullshit. In fact, his bullshit meter was legendary.

She crossed her arms, looking for a bit of comfort as a shiver rolled over her body.

“Yes, he’s late,” she said softly, eyes on her grandfather. “And no, you need those meds now.”

Gramps worn and dog-eared John Deere cap was askew, and his white button down shirt had suspicious red stains down the front of it. Bobbi was pretty sure her he’d gotten into the red wine after she cleared out of the kitchen. He’d been told to stay away from it on account of his medication, but she wasn’t going to call him out on it.

His cheeks were rosy, his eyes soft, and her heart swelled at the sight of him. He’d been through so much lately—they all had—but it had been particularly hard on Gramps.

Two months earlier, the family had been forced to put Bobbi’s father—Herschel’s son—into a long term care facility. Trent Barker’s Alzheimer’s had been getting worse. Days went by with no recognition of any one family member, which was bad enough, but when he’d started a fire in the kitchen for the second time in two weeks, there was no choice but to admit him. He’d become a hazard not only to himself but to Gramps. They knew it was for the best, but the best is sometimes a hard pill to swallow.

And then, a few weeks back her gramps had fallen. He’d screwed up his hip, damaged an already weak knee and was now tooling around in a motorized wheelchair.

A wheelchair he used as if he was racing in the Indy 500.

She winced when the chair bumped into the doorframe and took out another chunk of wood before nearly toppling the oak bookcase propped up along the wall.

“Damn thing,” Gramps muttered, glaring at the bookcase. “Wasn’t in that spot yesterday.” He scratched his head, glowering. “Mrs. McKewen’s been screwing with the furniture again.”

Bobbi tried to hide a smile but figured by the look tossed her way she hadn’t been entirely successful.

“Nice try, Gramps, but that bookcase has been in the same exact spot since I was ten. The only thing that’s different is the big old dent you just put into the doorframe.”

He huffed. She tried not to smile and again failed miserably. “Honestly, Gramps, I don’t know if this house is going to survive that wheelchair.”

“Bah,” Herschel said gruffly. “It’s just a little tricky around the corners is all.”

“Uh huh,” she replied, eyes moving back to the window as another wave of ice slammed against it.

“Have you tried calling Shane?” her grandfather asked carefully. By his tone, Bobbi could tell he’d picked up on the tension between the two of them.

At least twenty times.

She nodded. “I sent a few text messages as well, but his phone goes straight to voicemail. There’s either a problem with the service, or his phone is not on or dead or…”

He doesn’t want to talk to me.

Her voice trailed off as headlights cut through the dark and shot through the window. Twin beams illuminated the unlit Christmas tree in the far corner of the room, and shadows crept up the wall behind it.