Wellington Labor Camp, June, 1874
Nick paced with his arms crossed, hell-bent on maintaining the same gruff, no-nonsense tone he'd use with one of his foremen at the ranch. His hands, hidden from view, were clenched fists, and his muscles were aching from the effort of controlling his rage and anxiety.
Promise me, Nick, Heath had said, Follow my lead. Nick had gotten to know his reserved and stoic brother a little bit over the months they'd been together. He knew Heath had created that tussle out in the prison yard as a stalling tactic. Heath wanted him to follow his lead. Problem was, Nick also just saw Heath fighting the guards with everything he had left, trying to stay out of that box. That was no stalling tactic. Nick was pretty damn sure he knew flat-out desperate terror when he saw it.
God, where was Jarrod?
"Captain", Nick said, stopping to look out of the office window at the prison yard and the ugly metal box, "is this necessary? I mean, he hasn't had any water, and that box'll kill him pretty damn quick in this heat. If he's toeing the line like he seems to have a mind to, seems he'd be a better example to the other prisoners out where they can see him. No point whipping a boy like that into line and then just killin' him off."
The warden stopped to consider Nick's words. He had begun to see several potential benefits to the current situation. The arrogant blonde cowboy who had insulted him in front of his men, to have him under his thumb now would help control the whole prison population. And to have a rich family indebted to him for removing their bastard, keeping him locked away, and keeping the whole business quiet - well, that could be very beneficial. So it probably would be best to keep 597 alive, as Mr Barkley suggested.
"I believe you are quite right, Mr Barkley. Thank you for your input. Peterson! Get 597 out of there. Wash him up and get him some water. I want him in the holding cell and in restraints when you're done."