The Last Bachelor

Prologue

WEDDINGS DEPRESSED the hell out of Mac Delaney.

And this one was really lowering his spirits. He’d just lost his last poker buddy.

Fixing a polite smile on his face, Mac watched as Jack Hathaway led his glowing bride onto the dance floor and swept her into a waltz. To Mac, it sounded more like a funeral dirge.

During the past year, every single member of his Tuesday-night poker group had walked that last mile down the aisle. Oh, they were still going to come to the jailhouse to play cards on Tuesday nights. They’d promised him that. Marriage wouldn’t change a thing.

But Mac knew better. Marriage changed everything. And seldom for the better. His parents’ marriage had been a good example of that.

As other couples joined the bride and groom on the dance floor, Mac let his gaze sweep the parlor of the old Barclay Mansion, the town’s grandest inn. The room was filled with laughter and music. Candles burned brightly, champagne was flowing freely, and along one wall, a buffet table was laden with food. Everyone was having a wonderful time.

It was hard to imagine that a little over a year ago the Barclay Mansion had been boarded up. Some believed that it had even been haunted by the woman whose picture now hung over the mantel. Mac glanced up at the young girl in the portrait.

Mattie Whittaker, Barclayville’s favorite ghost and scapegoat.

She looked innocent enough, but for fifty years, she’d supposedly wreaked havoc, haunting the mansion, playing the harpsichord, scenting the air with lilacs and putting a curse on everyone’s marriage.

Then a year ago, all that had changed when Mattie’s great-nephew Grant Whittaker had married pretty Mattie Farrell and they had turned the Barclay Mansion into a country inn. Now everyone believed that the ghost had lifted the curse and turned matchmaker! And she was so successful that she seemed to have infected all the single residents of Barclayville with a marriage bug!

Mac Delaney didn’t for a moment believe in curses or matchmaking ghosts. Nor did he believe that marriage was a communicable disease. But as an ex-NYPD cop and the current sheriff of Barclayville, he did believe in facts. And the fact of the matter was that the marriage rate had clearly gone up in Barclayville. His Tuesday-night poker group was just the tip of the iceberg. The Barclay Mansion was booked for weddings nearly every weekend. Nor was it just the members of his generation who were affected. Even old George Snyder, who ran the local diner and who had been a bachelor into his eighties, had finally dropped to his knees in front of spinster Ada Mae Clemson.

It was enough to make any intelligent man cautious.

Uncle Mac, why aren’t you dancing?

Mac turned to smile at his eleven-year-old niece, Katie. She had one of her classmates in tow, Benny Wilson, a young man with Down’s syndrome who delivered Barclayville’s weekly paper. Mac nodded to Benny and then tucked a bright red curl behind Katie’s ear. It looks to me like everybody here’s a couple. I’m the odd man out.

No, you’re not. Standing on tiptoe, Katie tried to scan the room. There’s someone—you should meet her. She’s over there...or she was just a few minutes ago. Turning back to Mac, she patted his arm. I promised to teach Benny how to waltz. Then I’ll be back, and I’ll find her for you.

Mac watched Katie drag a decidedly less enthusiastic Benny onto the dance floor. His sympathy went out to the boy. Anyone who spent time around his niece often felt as if they’d been caught up in a tornado.

Once again he let his own gaze sweep the room. He’d spoken nothing less than the truth to Katie a few minutes ago. He was the odd man out.

He wasn’t hungry. And he didn’t want to dance. He definitely wasn’t in a wedding mood. French doors opened to the wide front porch, and a warm breeze carried the scent of spring flowers. Mac smelled escape. Smiling and nodding to friends and neighbors, he began to edge his way out of the room.

He was only six feet from the French doors when he literally backed into his friend Grant.

Leaving so soon? Grant asked with a smile.

I’ve got to check in at the jail, Mac said.

Grant threw back his head and laughed. You haven’t had anyone locked up there for almost a year. You’re just afraid if you hang around here, my great-aunt Mattie will find you a wife.

Very funny, Mac said.

Grant patted his friend’s shoulder. It’s just a matter of time. We made a list at Jack’s bachelor party. And the only two single men left in town are you and old Hannibal over there. I feel it’s only fair to tell you that some money was put down on who was going to be my great-aunt’s next target.

Mac glanced out on the porch, where Hannibal, an oversize dog, was lying fast asleep near the railing. I hope you put yours on Hannibal.

Oh, I did. Believe me. But I was in the minority, old friend. Jack and the others are betting on you. I can see the headlines now—‘Last Bachelor In Barclayville Bites The Dust.’ Still chuckling, Grant headed toward the buffet table to join his wife.

Mac stepped out on the porch, then turned back to shoot a challenging look at the portrait over the mantel. If he was the last bachelor in Barclayville, he certainly intended to stay that way. Mattie Whittaker could just aim her arrows, or her harpsichord, or whatever, at someone else!

It was just then that Mac saw her, and he stopped in his tracks. It was the long fall of ebony hair that first caught his gaze. But it was her face that trapped it The pale skin and delicate features suggested fragility. But in profile, there was no mistaking the strength of that stubborn chin. Contrasts had always fascinated him.

Who was she? As the sheriff, he made it his business to know everyone in Barclayville. Mysteries fascinated him, too. He’d already taken a step toward her when he noticed that she was edging her way toward the French doors just as he had been only moments earlier. Could it be that she was a kindred spirit, as wary of weddings as he? Thoroughly intrigued, he waited while she made her way toward him, taking note of the way the white sundress left her shoulders bare, then nipped in to define a slender waist before falling softly to a pair of ankle-breaking high heels. She turned just before she stepped out onto the porch and her eyes met his.

Mac felt an immediate tightening in his stomach, as if someone had slipped past his guard and landed him a swift, hard punch. For a moment, his mind went totally blank. The experience was without precedent. In that instant, all he saw, all he knew was her.

He wasn’t even aware that he had moved forward, but when she stumbled, he was close enough to take her arms and steady her. Suddenly he was overcome by the scent of lilacs.

My shoe, she said as she drew away. It lay between them, its heel wedged snugly between two boards. Together they knelt, her hand covering his on the shoe as they struggled to free it.

His mind was still filled with her. Her grip was strong, contradicting the softness he’d felt when she’d leaned briefly against him. Fascinating. Without releasing the shoe, Mac raised his eyes to her face. This close, her skin was even paler than he’d thought, as translucent as fine china.

And her eyes. Enchanting was the word that drifted through his mind. They were gray, a dusky color that made him think of a summer sky at twilight, filled with the promise of a hot, sultry night.

I need my shoe.

As he saw her lips form the words, Mac struggled to gather his wandering thoughts. Keeping his eyes on hers, he finally said the first thing that came into his mind. I’m Mac Delaney the local sheriff. And you’re...?

Suddenly she shot to her feet. By the time he stood up, she was already halfway across the lawn. Even with one shoe, she was fast. And frightened? Was that what he’d seen spring into her eyes just before she’d leaped up?

Wait, he called, moving forward. Your shoe...

It was the harpsichord music that brought him to a dead stop.

Mendelssohn’s Wedding March?

No. No way. Shaking his head to completely clear it, Mac turned back to the mansion and frowned. He didn’t believe in a matchmaking ghost.

And he certainly didn’t believe that a woman could bewitch a man with her eyes alone. Did he? Frowning, he glanced down at the shoe he still held in his hand.

Then Mac grinned. Either way, it could be very risky to run after her and try to return the shoe. After all, that had been Prince Charming’s mistake. And it had gotten him married. A fate Mac Delaney was determined to avoid, matchmaking ghost or not.

As he started across the lawn to where he’d parked his pickup, his grin widened. As the last bachelor in Barclayville, a man had to be very, very careful.

1

SHE WAS RUNNING. It seemed like for ages now. But she wasn’t getting any closer to the car. And she had to.

It was dark. That didn’t matter as long as she kept the taillights in sight. The rain was pouring down. That didn’t bother her until it plastered her long skirt to her legs. Grabbing the hem, she bunched it out of the way. The loud clap of thunder didn’t make her jump, nor did the quick, potent flash of lightning that crackled across the sky. It was only as the car’s taillights disappeared that fear gripped her stomach with sharp claws.

She increased her pace, then slid on wet pavement as she rounded the curve in the driveway. Controlling the sprint of panic, she stumbled onto the grass, then recovered her balance and raced forward. She could just make out the taillights now. They were dimmer. The car was winning the race. She was losing. The wind whipped at her, pushing her back. Drawing on all her strength, she willed her legs to go faster, take longer strides. The distance. She had to close it. This time she had to catch the car. She had to stop them from taking Suzanna away.

She was weeping now. But above the sobs tearing through her and above the noise of the storm, she could hear the squeal of tires, the roar of the car’s engine as it turned onto the highway.

Just before the darkness closed in on her, she screamed.

GASPING FOR AIR, Frankie sat straight up in bed. She was shivering with cold. Her T-shirt was wet. And her phone... Hadn’t it been ringing? Quickly she reached for the extension on her nightstand, but all she heard was a dial tone. Had it been her own screams that had jolted her out of her nightmare?

Replacing the receiver, she drew her knees close and wrapped her arms around them. In just a minute she’d be fine. All she had to do was take one breath and then another. Slowly. With one hand, she rubbed at the tears on her cheek. She hadn’t had the nightmare for almost a year. Not since she’d left Syracuse and moved to Barclayville. Why had it come back tonight?

Gradually she became aware of the scent of the vanilla candle on her nightstand, the almost silent pulsing of her watch and the steady drip, drip of rain from the eaves. The sound was soothing, real.

Opening her eyes, Frankie forced herself to concentrate on familiar things. The breeze pushing the organdy curtains into the room and the wide ribbon of moonlight slashing across the floor. It had been raining when she’d fallen asleep.

Unfolding herself from the bed, she crossed to the window and ran her finger through the beaded drops on the sill. She’d slept through quite a downpour. Perhaps the storm had triggered the nightmare. Or the fact that next Sunday marked the first anniversary of Suzanna Markham’s suicide.

Or it could be her subconscious warning her that she’d broken the promise she’d made to herself when she’d gotten involved in Benny Wilson’s problems. Not that she’d had a choice. Not with Katie Delaney on her case.

Frankie’s lips curved at the thought of the little girl, a bubbly, pint-size package of Irish charm and unrelenting determination. But her smile faded as she recalled the day that Benny and Katie had offered to help her clear the winter’s debris out of her garden. When Benny had taken off his shirt...Frankie could still picture quite clearly in her mind the bruises on Benny’s back. And the look on Katie’s face when she’d begged her to help the boy. She’d had no choice.

Shoving the images out of her mind, Frankie forced herself to recall the evening she’d just spent with Benny in his new home. His cousins, Jim and Nancy, were thrilled to have him there. Was that what had caused her nightmare? Could her success in helping Benny have caused her subconscious to taunt her with the memory of her failure with Suzanna? Suddenly, Frankie shivered.

Get a grip, Carmichael, she said as she turned from the window and moved to her dresser. If seven years of study and a Ph.D. had taught her anything, it was that a psychologist who tried to psychoanalyze herself might just as well check herself into the nearest loony bin!

Stripping off her wet T-shirt, Frankie dragged on her Syracuse University basketball sweats. The big S on the shirt made her think of Katie Delaney again. The little girl was an avid fan of SU basketball, a dedicated supporter, even when the team was losing.

Take a lesson from Katie, she lectured herself as she hurried down the stairs. Think positive, Carmichael. You helped Benny Wilson. And you did everything you could for Suzanna. If the little girl’s mother had only listened to her. Or the police...

No. She was not going to revisit that experience tonight. She had done her best to make Suzanna’s mother listen. As for the police, well, her opinion of them was only slightly higher than slugs in the chain of human evolution.

Grabbing the stack of mail-order catalogs from the coffee table, Frankie hurried into the kitchen. What she needed was a pot of coffee and a night of escape. Catalog browsing offered the quickest route she knew to a fantasy world. In a few short minutes, she would be choosing a new wardrobe, something to replace the jeans and sweats she’d been wearing since she moved to Barclayville. Something that might even please her mother! Going back to sleep was out of the question. She knew from experience that the nightmare would return.

She was reaching for the wall switch in the kitchen when she spotted the light on her telephone answering machine. So it had been the phone she’d heard. It hadn’t just been a part of her dream. Her finger was resting on the play button when she hesitated. Her number was unlisted. Neither one of her station managers would be calling at this time of night. And her father never called except on Christmas. That left her mother—and Dr. Cecilia Carmichael, famed research biologist, only called her daughter when she wanted to deliver a lecture. With a resigned sigh, Frankie pressed the button.

Immediately, the husky whisper hissed into the room.

"Go away! Before another child disappears. Go away right now!"

Frankie stood still, staring at the phone as the fear from her nightmare rushed back in full force, clawing its way through her and settling like ice in her veins. It couldn’t be happening again. She hadn’t received a phone call or a threat since she’d moved to Barclayville. How could he have found her? She’d been so careful to protect her anonymity. Not even Benny or his cousins, the Wilsons, knew who she really was. For nearly a year she’d lived in peace, building a new life for herself. It couldn’t be happening again.

The message light glowed back at her in contradiction.

Fine. She gave it one good glare before she flipped on the overhead light, then moved around the island that separated the kitchen from the living area and turned on every lamp in the room. It wasn’t going to happen again. Grabbing a filter from the cupboard and coffee from the refrigerator, she crammed them into her automatic pot, added water and pressed the button. She wasn’t going to let it happen again.

She’d run away last time. Sometimes the better part of valor was retreat. This time she wasn’t going to run away, and she wouldn’t make the mistake of calling the police. They hadn’t helped her back in Syracuse. Once they’d looked into her past, they’d secretly decided that she deserved to be harassed.

She’d built a new life in Barclayville, and she wasn’t going to let anyone take it away from her. Especially not someone who preferred to remain anonymous. Hands on the counter, she listened to the coffeemaker sputter and whoosh and gurgle. In just a minute, it would drown out the echo of that whispery hiss that still lingered in her mind.

TESS, IT’S NOT TIME to panic yet. Mac Delaney relaxed his grip on the phone and tried to follow his own advice. His niece, Katie, had run away. She’d been missing for five hours. No, Katie was not missing. She’d merely quarreled with her mother and taken off on her bike. A quick temper was part of the Delaney heritage. As soon as she cooled off, she’d come home. Mac took a deep, calming breath. He’d spent one too many years chasing down missing persons for the NYPD. He had to keep his imagination from working overtime.

I feel I should be doing more, Tess said. Maybe if I came down to the jail—

No. Katie will be there any minute. You wouldn’t want her to come home to an empty house.

No. Of course not. Can you think of anyone else I can call?

Rubbing his temple with his free hand, Mac listened to his sister repeat the litany of phone calls she’d made. An hour ago the most exciting case that the sheriff of Barclayville and Masons Corners had been looking forward to solving was in the latest mystery to hit the bestseller list. And he hadn’t even gotten to work on that. Instead, he’d been pacing back and forth in the two-cell jailhouse bemoaning his boredom. Sulking, actually.

Mac glanced at the caddy of poker chips and the stack of cards that he’d gotten out and set by the coffeepot. He’d even splurged on a couple of bags of snacks. The effort