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of labor. Paul, watching the dimple melt into the corner of her mouth, felt a surge of pride. He knew how she hated her scars, her hands, yet they were so much a part of her. Unorthodox, free, untamable, so natural, there was no one like Colby.
    “They live on a multi-million-dollar ranch,” Paul pointed out. “Posh. Probably a swimming pool, no work. Beautiful women. Sounds like a tough life to me. Maybe it’s a conspiracy and I’m in on it.”
    “Are you telling me you can be bribed?”
    He shrugged his wiry shoulders, winking at her with a little mischievous grin. “If the price is right you never know.” He tried to waggle his eyebrows and failed. “You don’t have to worry, Colby,” Paul offered suddenly, “I don’t think Mr. De La Cruz knew Juan brought the horses to us. In any case”—he shrugged pragmatically—“money’s money.”
    “So it is, my boy.” Colby sighed.
    At seventeen Colby had shouldered sole responsibility forthe ranch, her eleven-year-old brother, and six-year-old sister after a freak small plane accident had left their mother dead and Armando paralyzed. She had done so without a murmur of protest. Two years after the accident, her stepfather had insisted Colby write to his family in Brazil and ask them to come out quickly. He had known he was dying and he had put aside his pride to ask for help for his children. No one had answered, and their beloved father had died surrounded by his children, but without his brothers and sisters. Now, at sixteen, Paul could appreciate what these last five years had cost Colby. He did his best to take some of the load from her, knowing, for the first time in his life, what it was like to really worry about someone else. Each time Colby was thrown from a horse, he found his heart beating overtime.
    Colby never complained, but he could see the signs of strain, the weariness growing in her. “You want to take a break? The sun’s down,” he suggested hopefully. No doubt Colby was bruised from head to toe. His eagle eyes noticed she was cradling her left arm.
    “Sorry, hon.” Colby shook her red head regretfully. “I can’t let this one get the idea he’s boss. Let’s get back to it.” Without a trace of fear she entered the corral and caught the reins of the huge animal.
    Paul watched her as he’d done a thousand times in the past, her small slender figure, fragile looking beside a half wild horse, yet totally confident. She had built such a reputation for herself as a trainer, many of the top rodeo riders brought their newest acquisitions to her from all over the United States. Normally, she spent weeks, months, gentling them patiently. She had a special affinity for animals, horses in particular. Colby’s methods were usually harder on her than the horses. It was when she had to break them fast, like now, that Paul worried the most.
    Their ranch was small, mainly for horses—the few cattle and acres of hay were for their own personal use. It was a hard life, but a good one. Their father, Armando Chevez, had come to this country when he was buying horses for his wealthy family in Brazil, looking for new bloodlines for the enormous ranches they had in South America. He had met and marriedVirginia Jansen, Colby’s mother. Their match was not looked upon fondly by his family and he had been virtually disinherited. Colby never told her father she had found the letter from the Chevez patriarch stating he was to leave the “promiscuous, money-hungry American woman with her bastard daughter” and return home at once or he would be considered as if dead by the entire family. Colby had no idea who her birth father was and could care less. She loved Armando Chevez and thought of him as her true father. He had loved her and protected and cared for her as if she was his own blood. Paulo and Ginny were her family and she guarded them fiercely. She was determined they would have the ranch when they came of age, just as Armando Chevez had planned. It