Long Road Home (The Barker Triplets 4)

The two boys ran back outside, and Betty got busy helping Billie, who’d appeared from nowhere, looking pale but happy.

“That’s a good look on you,” Shane whispered as he let Ivy play with his fingers.

“Promise me,” she began to say before a big ball of emotion clogged her throat and shut her down.

“Promise you what?” Shane asked quietly.

It took some effort, but when she could speak, she melted into Shane’s side and cradled Ivy against her chest. “Promise me we’ll never go back to where we were. Promise me how we feel right now is gonna always be the same.”

Bobbi looked up into Shane’s eyes and saw his answer there. She knew they were far from perfect and more than a little crazy, but their love was strong. It had been tested, and they’d both come out the other side with an entirely new appreciation for each other, as well as a blessing to look forward to.

The guys and Gramps walked in from the deck laden with platters of steak, chicken, and potatoes. The young boys followed them inside and tried to grab bread off the table, but were shooed away to the bathroom to wash up by Billie.

The kitchen was bustling and full and noisy and cramped. There was happiness and joy and children and so much love, a person could get drunk on it.

As Bobbi took a seat at the table next to her husband, she looked at all the faces that meant the world to her and realized she was one lucky girl.

As Betty used to say, before she’d been held back by a swear jar…

It’s a damn good day to be a Barker.

Epilogue

Thanksgiving was, hands down, Herschel Barker’s favorite holiday for a couple of reasons. One, he loved football with all the fire and passion of a thousand suns. And two, he loved turkey nearly as much. Nothing like feasting on a big fat bird and all the fixings to make a man appreciate life.

But what trumped all that were his twins. Bobbi, Betty, and Billie. God, he’d loved them from the moment they drew breath and his son Trent and wife, Chantal had brought them home. He’d spent every Thanksgiving with one or all of them, and damned if this sudden winter storm wasn’t keeping him from seeing them this year. Especially considering the new great-grandbabies.

He’d slept with his clothes on in case he got the call and had to leave in the middle of the night. It was something he was known to do on occasion or when the circumstance warranted, and since he was an old goat, he figured he could get away with just about anything and blame it on his mental capacity.

Though, to be fair, he was still a sharp old son of a gun.

Herschel pulled a thick red toque over the brim of his faded and worn ball cap. He was geared up in layers and had paid special attention to his head and feet, because anyone with half a brain knew that those were the particular places heat escaped from the human body.

The sun was just breaking on this crisp Thanksgiving Thursday when he shoveled his way outside and then made a path down the porch steps. He was breathing pretty heavy by then and took a break—didn’t want to put too much pressure on the old ticker—and thank God he’d gotten stronger than a few years back, when he’d been getting around in a wheelchair.

Imagine that, he thought with pride. Heck, he didn’t feel a day past sixty-nine.

The roadways hadn’t been plowed, and with it being a holiday and all, he wasn’t sure it would even happen. But Herschel had a plan. He grabbed the gas can from the shed and trudged through the snow until he reached the garage. Once he emptied it into his skidoo, he hopped on board and took off.

No sense in waiting. He had a couple of babies to see.

As it turned out, Herschel wasn’t the only person out on a sled, and he waved to every single one of them on his way to the hospital. He brought the Ski-Doo as close to the entrance as possible and parked it in the first spot, closest to the doors. The fact that it was reserved for doctors didn’t faze Herschel at all. That right there was another example of blame that could be based squarely on his alleged mental capacity. Or bad eyesight. Take your pick.

“Morning, Candy,” he said to the woman behind the information desk.

“Hey, Herschel.” The woman smiled. “They’re all up on floor—”

“Three. I know. I’ve done this dance before.”

“I suppose you have. They’re in room twenty-nine.”

He made a quick stop in the gift shop and then ambled over to the elevator. A woman waited there with a big bag in one hand and gift bags in the other. She had thick white hair rolled up just perfect, pink pants tucked into shiny black boots, and a big red coat that would make a cardinal jealous.

“Morning,” he said with a smile.

“Morning.”

She was Southern, and she smelled nice.