Beckett's Cinderella

“I’m not signing anything, I’m not buying anything, I’m not—” She frowned. “What money?”

“Give me three minutes, I’ll try to talk fast. Are you or are you not the great-granddaughter of Elias Matthew Chandler, of…uh, Crow Fly, in Oklahoma Territory?”

Her jaw fell. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you crazy?”

Beckett slapped a mosquito on his neck. “Man, they’re bloodthirsty little devils, aren’t they? Any reports of West Nile virus around these parts?”

She shoved the screen door open, deliberately bumping it against his foot. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, come inside. You’ve got two minutes left to tell me why you’re harassing me.”

He took a deep breath. Liza couldn’t help noticing the size and breadth of his chest under shoulders that were equally impressive. Not that she was impressed. Still, a woman couldn’t help but notice any man who looked as good and smelled as good and—

Well, shoot! “One minute and thirty seconds,” she warned.

“Time out. You still haven’t answered my question.”

“You haven’t answered mine, either. All right then, yes, I might be related to someone who might originally have been from Oklahoma. However, I don’t happen to have a copy of my pedigree, so if whatever you’re trying to prove involves my lineage, you’d better peddle your papers somewhere else. One minute and counting.”

“I have.” His smile packed a wallop, even if she didn’t trust him.

“You have what? Tried peddling your papers somewhere else?” And then, unable to slam the door on her curiosity, she said, “What money? Is this a sweepstakes thing?”

“You might say that.” The smile was gone, but the effect of those cool gray eyes was undiminished. “Would you by any chance have a cousin named Kathryn, uh—Dixon?”

Some of the wind went out of her sails. From the living room, her uncle cackled and called out, “Better get in here, missy—your team just struck out again.”

“Look, would you please just say whatever you have to say and leave? I don’t know much about my family history, so if you’re trying to prove we’re related, you’d do better to check with someone else who knows more about it than I do. And if you’re after anything else, I’m not interested.” Never mind the money. She knew better than anyone not to fall for the old “something for nothing” dodge.

The man who called himself L. Jones Beckett edged past her until he could look into the living room. “Is that the Braves-Mets game? What’s the score?”

“So you’re back, are ye? Thought ye might be. General Sherman’s not going to be taking Atlanta tonight, no siree. Score’s one to one, the South’s winning.”

Liza closed her eyes and groaned. If he could talk baseball, she would never get rid of him. Uncle Fred would see to that. She might as well read his damned papers and be done with it.

Three

“Bring Mr. Beckett a glass of iced tea, Liza-girl. Have some potato chips, son.” Suddenly Uncle Fred leaned forward, glaring at the screen. “What do you mean, strike? That pitch was outside by a gol-darn mile!”

Liza left them to their game and headed down the hall to her bedroom. She would skim whatever it was he insisted she read, hand it back to him and show him the door, and that would be the end of that. If he did happen to be peddling some kind of get-rich-quick scheme, he’d come knocking on the wrong door this time. Any junk mail that even hinted that she was a big winner got tossed without ever getting opened. She didn’t want one red cent unless she knew exactly where it had come from.

The papers slid out in a clump. For a moment she only stared at them lying there on her white cotton bedspread. They looked as if they’d been soaked in tea. The top sheet appeared to be a letter, so she started with that.

“My Dear Eli…”

Liza made out that much before the ink faded. The ornate script was difficult to read, even without the faded ink and the work of generations of silverfish. She squinted at the date on the barely legible heading. September…was that 1900? Mercy! Someone should have taken better care of it, whether or not it was valuable. Maybe the writer was someone important. If it had been a baseball card from that era—if they’d even had baseball cards back then—her uncle would have done backflips, arthritis or not.