The High Road Home

Now available


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Robbie Tolliver, unmarried and facing forty, has spent half her life doing right by her kin. Now it's her turn to break loose with a solo road trip from Kentucky to Seattle. Her journey stalls in Colorado when she meets an enigmatic rancher, to-die-for in his faded Wranglers, but passion ignites only when they face danger together. When Robbie learns the secret haunting his life, the revelation teaches her about hard choices and sacrifice, about loving and letting go-and where her true home lies.


From the book ...

"Okay," Robbie said, "so far, so good." She turned right onto a gravel road and stopped to read the directions again. Another five miles on this road, then look for a man on horseback at a range gate, whatever that was. She had forgotten to reset the odometer after the last turn, but the road ended at Keyhole Ranch -- she couldn't miss it. 


The rattling passage seemed endless -- surely she had driven more than five miles. Sunlight still shone on the upper slopes, but the shadows grew deeper as canyon walls closed in. Just when she decided to return to her last landmark, she saw the horseman waiting beside a gap in the barbed wire fence.

At first she thought that he was asleep, slouched in the saddle with his hands folded on the pommel, but then he straightened and slipped something into his saddlebag. She slowed, not wanting to spook his horse, a bright sorrel with a flaxen mane and tail. 

The man rode up to her window, touched the brim of his straw cowboy hat, and gave her a slow smile. He reached across his horse's neck to shake her hand with a gentle pressure. "Ben Latham, ma'am."

Robbie’s heart did a back flip and landed at his horse's feet. Never mind he was probably married and had probably sired a whole herd of little cowboys and cowgirls. Gary Cooper, Henry Fonda, the hero in every classic Western . . . The Virginian, Shane -- books she still turned to on sleepless nights. She couldn't call his angular features handsome, but his smile heated her blood like good bourbon, and she could drown in his gray eyes without ever coming up for air. He might be thirty-five or fifty -- she guessed his age at close to her own.