The Patricia Potter Western Romance Collection Volume One: Relentless, Renegade, and Notorious

PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF PATRICIA POTTER

Patricia Potter is a master storyteller, a powerful weaver of romantic tales. —Mary Jo Putney, New York Times–bestselling author

One of the romance genre’s finest talents. —Romantic Times

Patricia Potter will thrill lovers of the suspense genre as well as those who enjoy a good romance. —Booklist

Potter proves herself a gifted writer as artisan, creating a rich fabric of strong characters whose wit and intellect will enthrall even as their adventures entertain. —BookPage

When a historical romance [gets] the Potter treatment, the story line is pure action and excitement, and the characters are wonderful. —BookBrowse

Potter has an expert ability to invest in fully realized characters and a strong sense of place without losing momentum in the details, making this novel a pure pleasure. —Publishers Weekly, starred review of Beloved Warrior

[Potter] proves that she’s adept at penning both enthralling historicals and captivating contemporary novels. —Booklist, starred review of Dancing with a Rogue

The Patricia Potter Western Romance Collection Volume One

Relentless, Renegade, and Notorious

Patricia Potter

CONTENTS

RELENTLESS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

RENEGADE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

NOTORIOUS

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Part Two

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

About the Author

Relentless

Prologue

Kansas, 1863

A bullet in the gut would have been more merciful.

Even hanging.

But nothing in Captain Rafferty Tyler’s life had been merciful, and it was obvious that fact was not changing now. Every hope he’d ever had, every dream he’d ever dared dream, was gone. He was no longer Captain Rafe Tyler, respected, decorated officer and gentleman.

He stood there, disgraced. Cashiered. A convicted felon. He wanted to ball his fingers into fists, but he wouldn’t give the bastards that satisfaction.

Thief. Traitor. They had judged him a thief and very nearly a traitor. But his exoneration on the latter charge didn’t matter. He would carry the stigma of both labels for the rest of his life.

He squared his shoulders, standing alone before the garrison as he was stripped of his captain bars, his buttons, his sword. Stripped of everything that had ever meant anything to him. Publicly stripped of his dignity. His soul.

Drums tattooed out his disgrace, the rhythmic rapping accompanying every humiliation. He tried not to hear them, but he knew they would echo in his brain forever.

And then the branding. A T on the back of his hand. T for thief. Public branding was still one of the army’s preferred punishments, though not usually for officers. But then he was no longer an officer.

Rafe allowed his gaze to move slightly from the officer directing the punishment. A few army wives and daughters stood on the porches of the living quarters. His jaw tightened as he searched for Allison. He didn’t know whether she would watch her former betrothed’s humiliation or not. She had been the first to abandon him when charges were filed against him. She hadn’t even asked him whether they were true, had only returned his ring by proxy, without comment, while he awaited court-martial in the guardhouse. He’d found he hadn’t known her at all, and, Christ, it had hurt.

He shook off the two men assigned to hold him still, and he offered his hand on the forge. He would not wear the mantle of coward as well as thief. But inside he retreated into some dark place where no one else could enter, would ever be able to enter. And he endured this part of the punishment—because he had no choice but to endure.

He tried to blank his mind, but he couldn’t. Flashes from the past whirled by, a parade of events that had led to this day, to this ultimate ignominy. That day more than twenty years ago when he had watched his mother and father die, his father scalped, his mother raped before being killed. He had been taken by the Comanches and held captive for three months until he was bought back by the army. Little had improved. He had been taken in by a Texas family, but he soon learned it was only because of the work he could provide; he would have fared as well with the Indians.

But he was a survivor. He’d always been a survivor. He joined the army at fifteen and found a home he trusted. A place he belonged.

Eight years on the frontier until the war, working his way from private to master sergeant. Then the war with the South started, and he received a battlefield commission and two promotions. He had found his place in life; leadership had come easily. Because he had been an enlisted man, he understood them and valued their lives. He had known they would go wherever he led, do whatever he told them.

He’d thought he’d conquered his evil star, but now he realized it had just been waiting to strike again. At twenty-five he’d been wounded and assigned to a desk job, away from the fighting he understood and into army politics he didn’t. He was temporarily assigned to providing escorts for payrolls headed West. He hadn’t trusted his superior, Major Jack Randall; something about the man had rankled Rafe.

Now he stared ahead at Randall, the man who had perjured himself at the court-martial, who had so neatly framed Rafe for payroll robberies Rafe knew now Randall had committed. Rafe had been an easy target, a maverick officer with a Texas accent.

Rafe heard the sizzling of red-hot iron against skin, smelled his own flesh burning, and blessed the momentary shock that kept the pain from immediately rocking him. He stood, his legs braced, as agony filtered through his consciousness, firing the hatred that was fiercer than the branding iron. His eyes never left the face of Major Randall.

The man flinched, and Rafe knew his eyes had promised vengeance. Relentless vengeance.

Randall licked his lips for a moment, then turned away.

Rafe withdrew his hand and, despite himself, despite self-made pledges he would not do so, he looked at it. The T was already evident, the skin burned black and raw, the sickening smell hovering in the hot summer sun. He swallowed his own bile to keep from moaning as the pain heightened, assaulting him in waves that continued to increase in intensity.

He was marked now. Forever marked as an outlaw and thief. No matter what he did, he could never rid himself of it.

He could never have a normal life. Not with the brand.

His arms were seized, irons fastened around his wrists, the soldiers unmindful of the burning agony of his hand. He was pushed toward the guardhouse to await transport to the Ohio State Penitentiary where he was sentenced to serve ten years. There were no military prisons, and military prisoners were turned over to whichever state facilities had space.

He bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain, from raging against the injustice. But no one cared. Randall had done his work too well.

If it was the last thing he ever did, Rafe would make Randall pay.

It was that thought, and that thought alone, that carried him through the night, through three days of being chained and displayed like an animal as he was taken by wagon and train to Ohio.

Randall. The name might as well have been burned into Rafe’s hand as the T. Rafe would never wipe out the stink of burning flesh, the humiliation of being cashiered in front of the garrison he once served, the purposeful, planned destruction of his life.

Not until Randall suffered like a man damned, suffered as Rafe had in the same lingering, irreversible way.

Chapter 1

Boston, 1873

Shea Randall knew her mother was dying.

Guilt mixed with loss. She should have insisted her mother call a doctor sooner, but Sara Randall had claimed over and over again her pain was only the result of eating bad food, that it would soon go away. No sense spending good money for a doctor.

But the pain hadn’t gone away. It had increased, suddenly exploding in agony. Her mother now lay on a hospital bed, curled with pain so severe, even morphine couldn’t control it.

Despite her frail appearance, Sara had a core of pure steel. She was the most determined woman Shea had ever known. Seeing her now, watching the life drain from her, was like taking a knife to her own heart and exposing it for all to see.

The doctor said Sara Randall’s insides were poisoned by the ruptured appendix, and there was nothing he could do. She had simply waited too long before coming to him.

Sara Randall had only a day or two to live, if that much. No more, he had said, and those days would be agonizing as infection invaded and slowly destroyed her mother’s body.

Shea held her mother’s hand. Sara’s eyes opened. The shop?

Mrs. Mulroney is keeping it open, Shea said, fighting back tears she knew would only distress her mother further.

You … should be there. Mrs. Logan’s bonnet …

Mrs. Logan’s bonnet is completed, Shea said, telling a lie her mother would despise. Her mother detested dishonesty of any type. A lie, she always said, is the road to perdition. You can never tell just one lie; lies take on a life of their own, reproducing new lies. A lie was like Hydra, a multiheaded monster that grew two heads for each one cut off.

But Shea justified this particular lie to ease her mother. Anything to relieve the pain and worry. Anything. If she could give her own life in exchange, she would. She was rewarded when her mother’s eyes closed, and Sara Randall seemed to relax; the next pain, Shea knew, would come soon enough.

Shea didn’t want to think of what might happen now. There had always been just the two of them. Her father had died before her birth, and her mother had supported the two of them with the small millinery shop that barely provided a decent living. There was never any money for extras, but Shea and her mother hadn’t needed much. They went to free concerts in the park, to church socials, and on occasion, when they had an extra dollar, to the theater.

They had some friends, but no one really close, since they had been too busy with the shop. And there were no relatives. It had always been the two of them against the world, her mother said, and that was a gracious plenty, more than many had.

There had been a few young men, suitors, but none whom Shea cared about enough to marry. Her mother had always urged her to consider several of the suits. Choose a man with honor, she’d said, and you will grow to love him. Don’t trust emotions, trust common sense.

And Shea had tried. She had been courted by some she believed honorable, like the father whose tintype image Shea adored. She had been courted by some she believed decent, but none had made her heart sing; there was no intensity of feeling such as her mother must have known to remain loyal all these years.

No, love had eluded Shea, and despite her mother’s urging, she refused to settle for less. Now she was twenty-three and thought to be on the shelf.

It was difficult to think of herself that way. She loved her books, she enjoyed drawing, and she knew she was a good designer of hats, particularly whimsical creations that drew customers to the shop. Those inspirations, as well as the caricatures she drew of people she knew, reflected the secret part of a personality usually considered tranquil and sensible. She would never be a good artist, but she had a sense of the ridiculous that she kept hidden to herself for fear of offending people.

But now nothing mattered except her mother. Shea couldn’t even think of life without her. Sara Randall had been friend and teacher as well as parent, and Shea felt lost at even the thought of being alone. Although at times she had rebelled against the possessiveness of and strict standards set by her mother, Shea had always felt deeply loved.

And now …

Desolation flooded Shea until she heard a moan escape from her mother.

Can I get you anything? Shea asked in a whisper.

Her mother’s soft gray eyes met hers. I wish …

What do you wish?

Be careful, Shea, be careful who you marry. Sara’s eyes filled with tears, and it was almost more than Shea could bear. She had never seen her mother cry before.

Someone like Papa? Sara had never said much about Shea’s father, and Shea had stopped pressing, thinking that his death had probably hurt her mother too badly. He had been charming, her mother said long ago. Handsome and charming and honorable.

But Sara didn’t answer, her mouth contorting as a new wave of pain racked her thin body. Her fingernails dug into Shea’s hand until Shea felt blood running down them. And then Sara’s pain seemed to weaken.

I’m sorry, Shea, her mother said in a whisper.

Shea bent down. There’s nothing to be sorry for.

I did what I thought was best. Her mother was looking into her face, willing her to believe.

Of course you did, Shea said, not understanding the sudden urgency in the words, or the meaning.

And then her mother screamed. Shea hurried out of the ward to find a nurse. In minutes there was an injection, and Sara’s calm gray eyes clouded.

I did what I thought was best, she mumbled again.

It’s all right, Mama, Shea said. It’s all right.

Sara’s eyes closed, and Shea wondered whether she would ever forget the fear that was etched on her mother’s face.

He had been so handsome. So charming. So persuasive. Sara saw him now in her fevered pain.

Jack Randall. He had been everything a young girl could want. It had been a miracle when he asked her to marry him and go West.

And then the miracle had turned into a nightmare. She discovered that Jack Randall was an incurable thief. Far more money than he earned showed up in his pockets. For a while she believed his explanations: a wager, a gift, a bonus from a grateful superior. But then Jack would say it was time to leave, often quite abruptly and in the middle of the night.

He always found another position; he could charm birds out of trees, employers out of checking nonexistent references, but then he would tire of his current job, complain it was not worthy of his skills, start stealing, and, when he thought he might be caught, move on again.

Like so many women often did, Sara thought at first she could reform him. But stealing seemed to be an addiction with him. He took more and more chances, and then she discovered his participation in a robbery of the bank in which he was a clerk. She had found wrapped bills in his traveling bag following the robbery, just days after she knew she was with child.

He had promised so many times to stop, and she didn’t believe him anymore. Part of her would always love him, but she wouldn’t raise a child on stolen money. Not as the child of a thief. She might be able to exist that way, but she wouldn’t burden a child with that kind of legacy.

And so without telling him of the child but threatening to reveal his part of the bank robbery if he came after her, she left him, telling friends in Boston that her husband had died. She had no intention of marrying again. Shea was born just when Sara’s own father died, leaving her a small inheritance, just enough to buy the millinery shop where she worked.

And the lies had started, the lies she had warned Shea about, because she knew better than anyone how destructive they became. She couldn’t let Shea know of her tainted blood, and so she lied and lied and lied, allowing Shea to believe that her father had been an honorable man, a good man.

She knew now what a mistake she’d made. As she emerged again from the foggy, weighted world of morphine, she was terrified that Shea would learn her father was still alive and try to go to him. She couldn’t let that happen. Jack Randall would corrupt her as he corrupted everyone around him.

Why had she kept the letters, the money, the newspaper story?

Because you couldn’t ever completely let him go. He was her weakness, the kind of weakness she’d tried to keep from infecting her daughter. Perhaps there was still time to burn those few keepsakes of a marriage that had been both paradise and hell.

She looked up at her daughter, who was sitting in the chair next to her, and saw her blue-gray eyes were closed. If only she could go home, she thought just as the pain hit again with agonizing sharpness.

A moan escaped her, and Shea’s eyes opened. Such honest eyes. She must never know about Jack Randall. He would charm her with that smile that delighted the heart.

Mama?

There’s a box, Shea, a wooden box, Sara said. In my closet. Go and bring it to me.

Shea shook her head. I can’t leave—

Sara tightened her clasp on her daughter’s hand. Please … it won’t take long.…

Shea hesitated. She didn’t want to leave, but her mother was growing agitated. She would hurry. I’ll bring it.

Sara’s fingers dug into her hand. Don’t open it.

I won’t, Shea said. I’ll get a nurse.…

Her mother’s hand dropped as her body arced again with pain. Just bring …

I’ll bring it, Mama. I’ll be right back. She leaned down to place her hand on Sara’s cheek, and Sara knew she must look frighteningly ill. Go, she said.

Her daughter nodded and hurried out the door.

Pain hit again, and Sara felt more of her life draining away with each new onslaught. She must destroy Jack’s letters, those few letters that begged her to return, the envelopes of money he’d sent. He had never known about the child, and she never wanted him to know.

Her eyes closed, and she saw him again in her mind, in her heart. Jack had begged her to come back ten years ago. He had said he had joined the army and was now a respected major. He had said nothing about the stealing. He could never admit doing anything wrong, but she knew he was trying to tell her he was through with that. She had been tempted. Dear God, how she had been tempted, and then she read the story in the Boston paper about a court-martial in Kansas and how a Major Randall had testified against another officer accused of payroll robberies. Most of the money had never been found. And she had known, deep in her heart, that it had been Jack who was responsible, not the other man.

She should have contacted army authorities, but then that would have meant revealing her own lies, allowing Shea to know her father was a thief. Still, she had hung on to that clipping. And the money he’d sent. She’d never spend a penny of it. Stolen money. Blood money. She wore an albatross of guilt about that other man.

That clipping … in the box with the letters.

The pain was fading now, drowning in a sea of fog. Hurry, Shea. Hurry.

Oh, Jack, if only …

Shea couldn’t find the box right away. It was well hidden under a number of hatboxes, and she had to go through each one to find what her mother apparently wanted—a lovely carved wooden box with a lock.

She wondered where the key might be. She went through her mother’s desk, looking for one. Wouldn’t her mother want the key as well?

Almost frantic with worry, she gave up. The key must be either in her mother’s possession or at the millinery shop below. Just as she was leaving the house, a neighbor stopped to ask questions, and it took Shea several moments to get away. She couldn’t find a rental carriage and started to run, urgency eating at her.

She held the box as if it were a treasure as she ran up the steps of the hospital.