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left, he tur-ned to her and sa-id, "I'm go-ing to ac-ci-dently men-ti-on to my gran-d-fat-her that I was with you this mor-ning, sha-ring cof-fee, kis-sing…"
    "You bas-tard!"
    "I'd li-ke to be ab-le to tell the old son of a bitch that I'd scre-wed you, but I can imply as much and he might be-li-eve me. Af-ter all, if he asks you if I was he-re this mor-ning, you won't lie to him, will you?"
    Whistling as he wal-ked to-ward his Mer-ce-des, Jamie ac-ted li-ke a man who didn't ha-ve a ca-re in the world, as if the-re we-ren't do-zens of wo-men who'd li-ke to put a sta-ke thro-ugh his black he-art. Af-ter get-ting in-si-de the car, he lo-we-red the win-dow and blew Erin a kiss. As he bac-ked out of the dri-ve, she he-ard him la-ug-hing.
    She sho-uld pro-bably call Jim and tell him what had hap-pe-ned. Fo-re-warn him. She wo-uldn't even bot-her if it wasn't for the fact that be-ca-use of the dif-fe-ren-ce in the-ir ages, Jim wasn't as con-fi-dent abo-ut the-ir re-la-ti-on-s-hip as she was. God damn it, she ha-ted to re-lay this in ci-dent to Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
    Jim, kno-wing how up-set he'd be with Jamie. The boy, who sho-uld ha-ve be-en Jim's pri-de and joy, was an ut-ter di-sap-po-in-t-ment to him. A part of Erin wis-hed she was still yo-ung eno-ugh to gi-ve Jim a child, even if at se-ven-ty-fi-ve he might not li-ve to see the child grow up. But she was past the age of mot-her-ho-od and Jim wo-uld pro-bably la-ugh at the no-ti-on. Too bad he didn't ha-ve ot-her gran-d-c-hil-d-ren, at le-ast one worthy of a man li-ke Big Jim Up-ton.
    For abo-ut the hun-d-redth ti-me sin-ce she left Chat-ta-no-oga at day-b-re-ak that mor-ning, Re-ve Sor-rell as-ked her-self why the hell she was do-ing this. Why did she fe-el com-pel-led to co-me to Che-ro-kee Po-in-te in se-arch of a wo-man she'd ne-ver met? It wasn't as if she ne-eded any mo-re re-la-ti-ves. Sin-ce her mot-her di-ed this past sum-mer, co-usins by the do-zens had co-me out of the wo-od-work, all with an in-te-rest in the vast Sor-rell for-tu-ne she'd in-he-ri-ted. One rat-her un-gen-t-le-manly co-usin of her fat-her's had ac-tu-al-ly had the balls to sue her, on the gro-unds that she was only Spen-cer and Les-ley Sor-rell's adop-ted child. The ca-se had ne-ver got-ten off the gro-und, sin-ce Re-ve's law-yer had con-vin-ced her co-usin's law-yer that they'd be la-ug-hed out of co-urt.
    As she dro-ve slowly along Ma-in Stre-et, she se-ar-c-hed the fa-ces of the ci-ti-zens scur-rying to and fro in the small dow-n-town area. She had grown up in Chat-ta-no-oga, a mid-si-ze city, with just the right amo-unt of hus-t-le and bus-t-le not to ha-ve re-ma-ined a sle-epy So-ut-hern town and yet not so lar-ge as to ha-ve lost its old-fas-hi-oned charm. She still li-ved in her pa-rents' ho-me on Lo-oko-ut Mo-un-ta-in, in an old and pres-ti-gi-o-us ne-ig-h-bor-ho-od. Al-t-ho-ugh not the Sor-rel-ls'
    bi-olo-gi-cal child, she'd still be-en ra-ised with the-ir be-li-efs, tra-di-ti-ons, and so-ci-al snob-bery. She was, in all but blo-od, a true Sor-rell. And the-re wasn't a day that went by she didn't thank God for her go-od for-tu-ne.
    As an in-fant of only we-eks, she'd be-en bles-sed the day she was pla-ced with the Sor-rel-ls. Her pa-rents hadn't told her she was adop-ted un-til she was six, and in the tel-ling, they'd ma-de her fe-el very spe-ci-al and gre-atly lo-ved. When at fo-ur-te-en she'd as-ked them a lot of qu-es-ti-ons abo-ut her true pa-ren-ta-ge, they swo-re they knew not-hing abo-ut her birth pa-rents. It wasn't un-til she'd be-en awar-ded her bac-he-lor's deg-ree from UT that her then wi-do-wed mot-her told her she'd be-en fo-und in a Dum-p-s-ter in Se-vi-er-vil-le, thrown away li-ke trash when she was lit-tle mo-re than a new-born.
    It wasn't as if she had co-me to Che-ro-kee Po-in-te to-day on a whim or that she'd simply ta-ken Jamie Up-ton's word that she had a lo-ok-ali-ke in this small mo-un-ta-in town. She'd met