Ford sighed, resting his head back on the downed tree trunk behind them and staring at the green-and-blue-speckled canopy above. “Please tell me something I don’t already know.”
“All right. Did you know I’ve only ever seen Corrie cry two times in the twelve years I’ve known her and both times were because of you?”
He lifted his head and raised his brow. Two times? “Is this supposed to make me feel better?”
“No, it’s supposed to make you realize that despite everything, she probably still wants to be with you.”
“When was the first time?”
“Back in school. After the whole Addison thing.”
“Wait . . . she told you about that?” Ethan nodded. “Why didn’t you ever say anything to me about it?”
“Honestly? Because I had a crush on her. I mean, can you blame me?”
Ethan had had a crush on Corrie? Ford’s mind swirled in a thousand different directions.
“It was always obvious that the two of you had some little thing going on, but then the whole Addison situation happened. She cried about it, tried to act like it was about the fellowship, but I knew deep down it was because of you, and for a brief moment I thought maybe I had a chance. Maybe I could show her that I was a great guy. But the way she looked at you? She’d never looked at me that way. I’m her buddy. Her compadre.
“Don’t worry . . . I’m over her now,” he continued, waving his hands like it was no big deal. “But the minute Corrie saw you at the airport, there was that flicker in her eye. That heartbreak still lingering even after all these years. She’s even got it right now,” Ethan said, motioning his head toward the rest of camp.
Ford looked over, finding Corrie watching them from a distance, then quickly averting her gaze.
“I don’t deserve her,” Ford said, throwing the broken stick into the empty stone fire circle as he forced the ache in his heart to forget that look Corrie had been giving him.
“Oh, screw that. Ford, people make mistakes. Sometimes big ones. But it’s what you do after that that matters. Nothing is unforgivable.”
“Yeah, but—”
The roar of several Jeeps rolling into camp cut him off. They didn’t bother parking by the other vehicles. No, these guys torpedoed straight toward the mess tent, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them.
“What the . . .” Ford said, lifting himself off the ground.
A few men jumped out of the Jeep and started questioning those in the camp, but Ford and Ethan were too far away to understand what they were saying among all the commotion. Ford didn’t recognize any of the people. But the vehicles had a seal on the sides of the door: DEPARTAMENTO DE ARQUEOLOG?A.
The regulatory agency for any archaeological digs taking place in Mexico. Something wasn’t right.
Ford and Ethan rushed over to the others, pushing through the crowd.
“Who’s in charge here?” one of the men asked.
“I am,” Ford said, finally making his way to the crowd.
“And your name?”
“Dr. Ford Matthews,” he said, reaching his hand out. But the man didn’t take it.
“Well, Dr. Matthews, you’re undertaking an illegal archaeological dig on these lands. We’re shutting you down.”
The crowd erupted with questions and concerns. Illegal? There was nothing illegal about what they were doing.
“Excuse me, and who are you?” Ford asked.
“My name is Jaime Castillo, director of the National Department of Archaeology.”
“Well, Mr. Castillo, I can assure you that we’ve got the permits to dig here.”
“Ford,” Corrie said, squeezing through the crowd. “What’s going on?” Her voice was worried.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this,” Ford said. Although the pit in his stomach said otherwise.
“Let me see your permit,” Castillo said.
“I’ll be right back.”
Ford marched over to his tent, his mind racing a million miles a minute. This needed to be set straight. Once he showed them the permit, everything would be fine. Grab the permit, go back, and then—
“What the hell?” Ford muttered to himself as he walked into his tent. Papers tossed. Bedding on the floor. Drawers open. Had those assholes already made it to his quarters to search? And what the hell were they even looking for?
Ford went straight for the desk, retrieving the permit from the remaining papers in the top drawer and hurried back to Castillo to set things straight.
“Here,” Ford growled, whipping the permit at Castillo. “And maybe next time stay out of my things.”
Castillo raised his brow at Ford before taking and examining the document. “How did you get this permit?”
“The property owner applied and gave it to us before we got here. See?” Ford said, pointing to a signature on the form. “His name is right there.”
“I have never seen this man a day in my life,” another man called out while climbing down from one of the Jeeps.
“Who the hell are you?” Ford asked. This situation was getting old.
“I’m Juan Carlos Moreno. The property owner. And I can assure you, Dr. Matthews, that I have not given you permission whatsoever to be on my land.”
No. This couldn’t be right.
“No, Pierre Vautour is the owner—”
“Vautour?!” Corrie called out. “Ford, Pierre Vautour is a smuggler.”
Ford blinked several times. What was happening?
“What? No . . . no, you must be thinking of someone else. He’s a friend of Dr. Crawley’s,” Ford said, trying to convince Corrie. Trying to convince himself.
“Oh, I’m sure. There’s only one Pierre Vautour. Please don’t tell me he’s who hired you for this job.”
Ford stared at her, his nonanswer all the answer she needed.
“Well, this permit is a fake,” Castillo chimed in, handing the bogus document back to Ford. “And perhaps this Mr. Vautour thought you would go unnoticed on hundreds of acres in the middle of the jungle, but trying to sell artifacts on the black market raises eyebrows.”
The thief.
Everything was starting to make sense. Vautour’s blackmailing. His insistence that they quickly wrap up before suspicions were raised. The large sum of money. Money that probably didn’t even exist. Ford was a gullible fool.
“I’m sorry . . . I need a minute to process all this,” Ford said, putting his hand to his forehead. “This . . . this doesn’t make any sense.”
They were in trouble. No . . . deep shit. If they were digging for artifacts without permission and without a permit, they could all be arrested. Thrown in Mexican jail. Who knows how long they’d be stuck there, drowning in red tape and paperwork? And what about his mother?
“Clearly we are as shocked as all of you,” Corrie chimed in, touching Ford’s arm. “Can we have a minute to make a few calls and try to sort this out?”
“Go ahead, but we’re not leaving . . . and you’re not going out to dig,” Castillo said.
Ford stood in a daze, pulled away from the crowd by Ethan and Corrie yanking on his arms. Between his mom, the legal trouble, the potential media frenzy, and their fraternization with criminals, they’d stepped into a full-on shitstorm.