All I Want for Christmas: A Novella

By Sandra D. Bricker

Santa Claus is coming to town. And if Joanna has anything to say about it, so are her sisters.

Admittedly, Joanna’s Christmas list reads more like a to-do list: Ready the family horse farm to sell. Check. Convince her older sisters to pretty-please-with-sugar-cookies-on-top come home for one last holiday at the homestead. Check. And maybe . . . even be wrapped up in the hired hand’s arms? Reality check.

It will take a miracle to get Jed to see her that way.

But it is Christmas. Miracles are known to happen. And who knows? Maybe the greatest time of year will be the greatest thing that ever happened to them. Now that would be the best present she could ask for: a merry Christmas and a happy rest of her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kregel Publications
• Release date: Oct 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781683701217

Sandra D. Bricker

Sandra D. Bricker was an entertainment publicist in Los Angeles for more than 15 years, where she attended school to learn screenwriting and eventually taught the craft for several semesters. She became a best-selling, award-winning author of Live-Out-Loud Fiction for the inspirational market, authored books such as the Jessie Stanton novels, and was best known for her Emma Rae Creation series. Over the years, as an ovarian cancer survivor, she spent time and effort toward raising awareness and funds for research, diagnostics, and a cure. Sandra lived in Toledo, Ohio before her passing in 2016. She is remembered online at SandraDBricker.com.

Book preview

All I Want for Christmas

Written by Sandra D. Bricker, originally published as part of the novella Sleigh Bells Ring

Published by Gilead Publishing, Grand Rapids, MI

www.gileadpublishing.com

ISBN: 978-1-68370-121-7 (eBook)

Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version® NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

Editors: Barbara J. Scott and Sandra D. Bricker

Cover and interior designer: Larry Taylor

Dear Jo-Jo,

If you’re reading this letter, my attorney has finally located you. The last address I had for you was no good, so they hired an investigator to track you down and let you know about my fate. It seems you girls have scattered in every different direction, but I wanted you all to know that the horse farm is legally yours now. Not that it belonged to anyone else since the day your beautiful mom came to stay.

I wish we could have spent some time together before the cancer got ahold of me—just one of the many regrets I have these days. Baby, I hope you’ve been able to find a little forgiveness for your old man over the years. I wasn’t the best father—or any kind of father, really—but I’ve always loved you. I pray you know that, and I’m truly sorry for all the years we lost.

Tuck

[Love] always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

—1 Corinthians 13:7–8

Chapter One

Joanna had intended to sleep in past seven, especially now that she had the option—an unusual occurrence for a Thursday morning except for her recent state of unemployment. But her internal clock had gone off at ten minutes before the hour just to irritate her. The voices in her head simply refused to shut up, and she finally surrendered and climbed out from under the multiple quilts layered over her.

She padded to the kitchenette in bare feet, still wearing her drawstring, pink-flannel pants and long-sleeved Henley. She pressed a folded paper towel into the brew basket and spooned some coffee into it before running water into the carafe. By the time she produced a mug from one of the hooks under the shelf, the fragrance of freshly brewing coffee tickled her nose. After filling her mug, she noticed a few grounds floating around in the cup and scooped them out with the back of the spoon before stirring in the creamer. She nearly dropped the spoon when someone pounded on her door three times.

Joanna squinted at the clock. It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning, she bellowed as she made her way across the room. Peering through the peephole, she grimaced at the distorted image of a young twentysomething with wire-rimmed glasses. The collar of his coat stood upright against the wind howling through the narrow passageway. After a moment, he thumped his gloved fist against the door again, twice this time.

Joanna left the security chain in place and unlocked two deadbolts and the doorknob. She pulled the door back a few inches and looked out through the opening.

What do you want? My husband is sleeping, she fibbed.

The guy narrowed his eyes for a few beats before answering. Miss Tucker? Joanna Tucker?

Who wants to know?

The hiss of the wind through the outdoor passageway turned to a roar, and all of his sandy hair blew to one side of his head. His small frame nearly toppled over.

I’m Stephen Sample, he shouted. I work for Hanks and Stern.

I’m sorry. Who?

The Law Offices of Hanks and Stern.

She glanced over at the overflowing, metal bowl on the table next to the door, the place where she dropped all of the bills and unopened collection notices awaiting her attention. She thought she remembered a logo bearing those names on at least one of the envelopes in the bowl. Or maybe two of them. There wasn’t a handwritten address in the lot of them—just various business fonts spelling out Ms. Joanna Tucker. Or in the case of Fort Wayne Medical Center’s invoice, Joanne Rose Tacker. It seemed nothing ever came to her mailbox anymore without metaphoric extended hands and raised palms, seeking funds she simply didn’t have.

We’ve been trying to make contact with you on behalf of Robert Tucker.

Joanna’s entire body froze, more from the mention of the name than the frigid winter wind slithering in through the small opening. I don’t know anyone by that name, she lied and started to push the door shut.

Ms. Tucker, he objected, pressing his palm against the door so he could slip his business card through. Please. Can I come inside and speak to you? Five minutes, and I’ll be out the door again. When she didn’t reply, he added, It’s really cold out here.

Wait there, she snapped and closed the door. She studied the card as she rushed to the bathroom. She grabbed the plaid, flannel robe from the back of the door and slipped into it, burying the man’s card in the pocket as she returned to snow-boy waiting outside. Five minutes, she told him as she belted the robe. No more than that.

Thank you. Panting, he hurried inside, brushing the snow from his thick hair. This weather is ridiculous.

It’s winter. And we live in Indiana. It’s not all that surprising, is it?

I just made some coffee. She padded over to grab a second mug. "How do you