Page 16 of The Boxer’s Belle

West paused his efforts with the dung, propped the shovel against the ground, and leaned on it with one arm. “I did.”

“Us and no one else.”

“Come out with it, then.”

His father sighed and adjusted his own shovel to serve as a counterweight. “And your visit here has nothing to do with Lady Bella.”

West bit back a sigh. “’Course not.”

“That girl’s been to hell and back twice again in the last year. She’s not in need of a meaningless flirtation.”

West remembered precisely what Bella had been through in the last year—and every year before. He had wrapped his hand around her limp and lifeless one while she went through it. He’d washed the blood from her forehead. And he’d lived a thousand torturous eternities in the minutes before her eyes flicked open. He hadn’t been able to protect her. The only thing he’d ever been able to offer her was a meaningless flirtation.

“You know damn well that Arabella Sinclair has never once needed a thing from anyone. Least of all me.”

“What I’m saying and what you’re hearing are two different things, lad.”

“I’ve memorized this speech, Pa. Lady Bella deserves the world, and anyone not in a position to provide it best keep his gaze from wandering in her direction.”

His father huffed in irritation and turned back to the muck. “You’re not a boy any longer, Miles. The view from this side of the fence looks mighty different now.”

“Pa…”

“I’ve said my piece.” His father’s tone hinted that he had plenty more he’d like to say on the subject. That he intended to set it aside for the moment was a relief.

The sentiment was nothing new. Pa had been sharing variations on the theme since Bella lowered her hem. Lady Bella is a lady; she needs to marry someone who can give her a proper life. His father was a kind man; he always left the last part unsaid—and you’ll never be able to give her a proper life.

The fact was, no one was giving Bella a proper life. Her mother had passed on. And her father... West may have made a living with his fists, but he didn’t delight in violence. Still, he would’ve taken great pleasure in being the one to remove that man from the world.

But such fantasies were in vain. The man met his maker more than a year ago— West would never know his vengeance.

He shook away the bloody thoughts. “I thought I’d start on the winter firewood as long as I’m here.”

“I thought you were staying until Michaelmas.”

“Might shorten my visit a bit.”

A pointed note accompanied his father’s hum. “The lad has been possessed lately---since that tree took out the pathway last year. He’s felled every trunk with a twig that so much as twitched in a light breeze. There’s plenty that needs breaking down.”

“I’ll take care of it.” West took his father’s shovel and hung his own before heading off toward the wood yard.

Twenty minutes later, his shoulder began to protest the unfamiliar motion, leaving the satisfying ache of a job well done. The rain may have dried out, but the ground was still damp. He’d made the mistake of pivoting in place as he moved logs to the chopping block and billets to the firewood pile. The earth had worn away beneath his feet, forming mucky divots.

Despite the filth, the work was gratifying. The steady rise and fall of the axe, the pull of his tendons, allowed his mind to wander.

He’d split a tidy pile when the sound of new boots squishing through the mire interrupted him.

“Are you planning to hide here indefinitely?” Benedict asked.

West paused his work and turned to his friend. “Thought about it.”

“Come now, she’s not so fearsome.”

West turned, meeting Benedict’s gaze with a raised brow.

“Alright, she is, but she’s unlikely to actually kill you.”

The heap of unsplit logs beckoned to West, and he reached down for another. “I’m not afraid of Bella. But this is her home. She shouldn’t be made uncomfortable.”