Lone Star Pharmaceutical had been her professional home for more than thirteen years and in a matter of moments, that home had been reduced to nothing more than rubble and ash.
Donovan glanced around the large, welcoming, airy living room of the main Colton ranch house as his mother settled two glasses of iced tea on the coffee table. She’d already bustled in with a tray of his favorites—cheese and crackers, a bowl of cashews and a tray of gooey Rice Krispies Treats—and had topped it off with her world famous sweet tea.
Perhaps that was a stretch, but she had brought her tea to every gathering ever held in Whisperwood. Someone had even asked him about it at work one day, rumors of his mother’s special recipe having reached as far as Austin. Donovan reached for his glass and took a sip, more than ready to admit every sugary drop deserved its near-reverent reputation.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” She glanced down at Alex, her smile indulgent as she pet his head. “Glad you’re both here. Though to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Alex and I had a job that finished early. I thought I’d come over and visit before heading back to Austin.”
“I’m glad you did. Our last dinner ended too early. And I—” She broke off, shaking her head. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Memories of his last dinner with his family still stuck in his gut and Donovan avoided thinking about it. He loved them—he always had—but he couldn’t be who they wanted him to be. And he’d long past stopped trying. Their definition of family was different from his and he’d spent a lifetime trying to reconcile that fact.
And was coming up damn short, truth be told.
He reached for a handful of cashews and ignored the guilt that poked beneath his ribs with pointy fingers. He was here, wasn’t he? That had to count for something.
Even if his presence was grudging at best.
“He’s so good.”
His mother’s words pulled Donovan from his musings and he glanced over to where she’d settled Alex’s head onto her lap, his gaze adoring as he stared up at her. “All this food and he hasn’t even looked at it.”
“Oh, he’s looking. Don’t let him fool you.”
“But he’s so good and doesn’t even attempt to make a play for anything. Remember Bugsy. That dog could find food if you wrapped it in plastic and buried it in the back of the pantry. He’d find a way to get to it, too.”
Unbidden, memories of the small, crafty mutt they’d had when Donovan was in high school filled his thoughts. Bugsy was a good dog—as friendly as he was tenacious—and his forays into the Colton pantry had become the stuff of family legend. “He didn’t miss much.”
“I always assumed all dogs were that way, but Alex is amazing. He hasn’t moved an inch.”
“He’s a formally trained police dog. It wouldn’t do to have him nosing into pockets at crime scenes or roaming through the pantry on home visits. He’s trained to sniff out bomb materials and illegal drugs.”
“Yes, he is. A dangerous job for a brave boy.” Her attention remained on the dog but Donovan was acutely aware the comment was meant for him.
“When the bad guys stop being bad guys, he can slow down.”
“I suppose so.” His mother patted Alex’s head. “But for the record, I am all for a dog being a dog. I did enjoy documenting some of Bugsy’s escapades.”
“There aren’t many like him.”
“Remember that Christmas he ate all the cookies? Oh boy, was that dog sick.”
Donovan remembered that holiday—along with the mess the dog vomited up in the barn later that morning—but true to form Bugsy had been back in business in no time. The wily dog raided the bacon and black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day, barely a week later.
“He was a character.”
The shift to a safe topic put them back on neutral ground and they fell silent again, his mother’s soft smile focused on Alex and the large black head snuggled in her lap. She might not be his biological mother, but Donovan had always known he’d gotten his love of animals from Josephine Colton. Her gentle nature and genuine pleasure with the furry or the feathered had always been a hallmark of her personality.
His mother had never met a stray she didn’t love or an animal she couldn’t whisper sweet nothings to. And since he’d been a stray himself, Donovan had innately understood the value in that personality trait.
“Dad keeping busy?”
“As much as the doctor allows. Your father is frustrated he can’t do the things he used to.”
“There’s no shame in asking for help.”
His mother sighed, trouble flashing in her warm brown eyes before she dropped her gaze back to Alex. “There is, apparently, when your name is Hays Colton.”
“He comes by that one honestly, don’t you think? In fact, I’d say he comes from a very long line of stubborn Coltons, starting with Uncle Joe and working his way down.”
The words were enough to vanquish the spot of trouble in her eyes and she smiled at that. “For someone who claims they can’t remember the names of so many aunts, uncles and cousins, you sure can pull them out readily enough when making a point.”
“The beauty of a large family.” An adopted one, Donovan added to himself. He’d managed to hold those words back this time. Coupled with the fact that he and his mother were having a cordial afternoon, Donovan figured he might actually get out of his childhood home without offending anyone or causing a fresh bout of tears.
Because, try as he might, there wasn’t any amount of love or extended family or years-old shared stories that could change one fundamental fact: Josephine and Hays Colton weren’t actually his parents.
And while Donovan would be eternally grateful for their care, their upbringing and their name, he’d never quite gotten past the circumstances that had put him in their barn one cold Christmas morning, abandoned and alone.
* * *
BELLAMY MARCHED THE return trip back to her office building from the human resources department. The walk had been long enough that she’d already worked her way through the first stage of grief—denial—and was fast barreling toward number two.
Anger.
How dare they? Or how dare she? Despite the reputation that had spread quickly about Sally Borne’s competence since her arrival at LSP, Bellamy still couldn’t get over the woman’s gall. Nor could she see past the horrifying thought that Sally thought she was somehow responsible for that awful note.
“Are you okay, Ms. Reeves?”
She turned at the sweet voice of Gus Sanger, doing his level best to keep up with her long strides through
