She’d been about four or five when it started. She’d be asleep in a room which she had made sure was clean, with all her toys in place. The sound of the door hitting the wall always woke her, then a big, beefy hand would grab her. Sometimes there were slaps sending her head first one way, then the other. Sometimes she’d be swung over her father’s knee and spanked as he yelled at her for something she’d done or something her mother had reported Amelia hadn’t done.

But what she hated most was the whiskey smell of his breath as he shook her while he yelled a few inches from her face.

When he got tired and short of breath, he’d toss her back in bed and walk out. If she cried too loud, he’d return for another round. On those nights, she’d crawl under her bed after he left, too afraid to make a sound.

Come morning, her mother would see the bruises and say simply that Amelia better “get with the program” or “straighten up and be good.” Somehow, no matter how many times he beat her, Amelia still couldn’t be the perfect child her mother wanted. If she was a minute late getting home. If she didn’t act fast enough when her mother gave an order. If she changed the channel on the TV and forgot to change it back.

Her mother never touched her. She didn’t have to. All she had to do was inform Amelia’s father.

Her childhood came back as she lay hurting all over now in the silent hospital, but she didn’t make a sound. She’d learned early what happens when you cry.

In the shadows, a tall, lean form slipped into the room. For a moment, she thought it might be the angel of death coming to claim her, but logic told her people rarely die from a broken leg. Her father and mother had no interest in knowing where she was. No one would come to hurt her again. She was safe.

As the stranger moved closer, she heard the clink of metal on boots, almost as if he wore spurs.

“You all right, lady?” he asked in a gravelly voice that seemed meant to sing country songs.

She tried to see details as he came closer. Black leather jacket. A dark bruise across his strong jawline. Hair dirty, dark, and too long. His left hand bandaged. The smell of whiskey flavored his breath as he leaned closer.

Amelia tensed at the familiar smell.

She should be afraid of this man who’d wandered into her room, but then she saw the sorrow in his gray eyes. Old eyes, she thought. Ancient eyes in a man who hadn’t lived half a lifetime.