“Because Mendoza was a Spanish Army deserter who couldn’t be trusted, that’s why,” Ford responded. “And the only written account of this version is Mendoza’s own, unlike the other version, which is supported by paintings in Tenochtitlán and multiple written accounts by other Spaniards.”
Yet again, chiming in with his unsolicited opinions. His sexiness was starting to wear off. Corrie rolled her eyes. Sure, there was more support for version A, and in many people’s eyes castration made for a sexier story. You know, sexy without the sex. But despite the lack of it in her own life, Corrie believed in love. She wanted Mendoza’s version to be true. She wanted Chimalli to break the barriers of the archaic rule and risk it all for love.
And to steal the knife as a fuck-you while he was at it.
But the fact of the matter was, they didn’t know. No one did. So unless and until she had definitive proof, Corrie was going to acknowledge there were multiple possibilities, but hope that Mendoza’s version proved true.
“Don’t you think there’s a possibility that, like Moctezuma the second’s supporters might have done to Chimalli, the Spanish Army could have planted lies about Mendoza to discredit him?” Corrie asked Ford. “Because according to Mendoza, he wasn’t a deserter. Rather, he fell down a ravine and was left for dead until Chimalli came upon him and saved his life. Why else would the Spaniards write about an otherwise low-level nobody like Mendoza?”
“Slow news day?” he joked, garnering a few laughs from the others.
Corrie’s blood started to boil. Typical. Just like when they were in school and he’d try to undermine her arguments with a silly remark that would steal everyone’s attention from the real issue. It had worked back then, and it worked for him now. And why wouldn’t it? Ford had a charm that few possessed. Despite his arrogance, he was the kind of person who could command anyone’s attention simply by walking in the room.
Addison Crawley, case in point.
“Real cute, Ford,” Corrie said to him, unable to keep from scowling.
“Oh relax, Corrie. I know many people might prefer the Prince Charming version where a warrior like Chimalli put it all on the line for love, but the facts are facts, and in this instance, they point to castration.”
Another snicker from the group stoked the fire burning beneath the surface of her skin. Fuck Prince Charming.
“As a practicing archaeologist, you should know that at this stage, there are no facts. Only theories.”
“Hey, I’m only pointing out the more obvious scenario.”
The inferno was ready to release its wrath when Ethan the Pacifier jumped in yet again.
“Well, that was fascinating, you two. Let’s see if you can put those critical thinking skills to work tomorrow morning.”
Corrie was starting to think Ford didn’t deserve her help. For all she knew, Ford was out here looking for Chimalli’s balls rather than trying to determine what really happened to him.
“You’re right,” Ford said, clapping his hands together. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow, gang, so let’s make sure everyone is rested and ready to hit the trail by eight a.m., okay?”
The students all nodded and got up, saying their goodbyes and good nights, leaving Corrie, Ford, and Ethan alone at the table. It was still relatively early, but if this was anything like the other digs Corrie had been on, the last evening after a break was always the toughest. You needed the evening to get back in the mind-set and rest.
All she needed was a good night’s rest.
Hmm.
“So . . . uh, what are the sleeping arrangements here?” she asked.
“Didn’t Ford tell you? You’re sleeping in his bed,” Ethan teased, and was immediately met by a shove from Ford.
What the . . . ?
“Will you knock it off?” Ford spat at Ethan. “You’re about to get fired if you don’t cut it out.”
Corrie eyed them curiously. She’d missed something, clearly.
“We ordered a tent for you so you’d have your own space, assuming you stay and all,” Ford continued once he got his annoyance with Ethan out of the way. “But our deliveries only come on Mondays so it isn’t here yet. But you can stay in my tent tonight—alone,” he then clarified, glaring at Ethan. “I’ll bunk with some of the other guys.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t want to put you out or anything. I can share with Agnes . . . and Sunny I presume?”
“You don’t want to bunk with Agnes. She snores,” Ethan offered.
“How do you know?”
“Sunny told us, in the politest, most I really don’t want to throw anyone under the bus sort of way,” Ford said, unable to hold back an endearing smile.
He looked good when he smiled. Not that smarmy, douchey smile he sometimes tossed her way. Like when he really wanted to irk her. But in genuine moments—the moments where Ford acted like a real person who actually had feelings and cared for people other than himself—well, in those moments, Ford went from being a hot jerk to a handsome man.
He also seemed to genuinely like his students, a sentiment Corrie shared. She could tell he had a soft spot for Sunny in particular.
But Corrie didn’t know what to make of all this—Jamaican coffee, charming smiles, and the offer to relinquish his tent for the night? Either he was really working to get her to stay or maybe Ford Matthews had matured over the last few years. Corrie wanted to think he could change. After all, she wanted to think that she had changed since they’d last seen each other.
Maybe she needed to cool it on the jabs. At least for the night.
Ethan stood and grabbed his tray. “I’m going to let you two sort this out and retire to my solo tent. It’s nice seeing you talking civilly, at least. Now, good night. I bid you adieu,” he said, bowing and taking his leave.
And allowing an awkward silence to settle over the table.
“I feel bad taking your space,” Corrie finally said, breaking up the stillness. “Really, I don’t mind rooming with Agnes and Sunny. Besides, it’s just for the night.”
They were the only two left under the mess tent, everyone else either sitting over by the fire and passing a bottle of booze or going in and out of their tents, readying themselves for the evening. Even Agnes had packed up, leaving Corrie and Ford to have to clean their own dishes.
“It’s fine, Corrie. Besides, unless you want to bunk with some of the guys, we’d have to move an empty bed from one of the other tents, so it’s easier this way. Come on, we should clean up.”
He stood and took both their trays over to the makeshift kitchen area where a tub of water sat waiting for them. “I’ll wash. You dry,” he said, handing Corrie a towel then rolling up his sleeves slightly higher. Aside from the hoots from the howler monkeys and the throaty squawks from the scarlet macaws, they washed and dried in silence, a rare occurrence for the two of them. Corrie’s mind blanked as her gaze wandered over him under the low camp lights. From his height to his hands. And then to his forearms. The muscles flexing beneath his skin with each movement.
A flash of ink peeked out from under the cuff of his rolled-up sleeves, on the inside of his elbow. Letters in cursive. CM.
Corrie’s heart skipped a beat. CM? As in Corrie Mejía?