Disclaimer: I do not own and am in no way affiliated with The Magnificent Seven.

One

The sound of forks and knives clinking against china always set Rachel McCann's teeth on edge. So did dinner parties, in general, but she was supposed to be the good little wife and that was exactly what she was doing. In order to further impress his boss, Bartholomew Bogue, her husband, James, had invited those considered part of the "inner-circle" of the industrial tycoon to dine with them.

Bogue had called on the house before, had even attended the few parties they had thrown prior to this one, and she had certainly seen him at other people's homes, including his own, but tonight seemed to be especially important to James. Rachel had always managed to escape Bogue's company after a "how do you do" before being whisked away to dance, play cards, or meet someone new.

So far, it had been nothing but endless work chatter. There was only one other man who had thought to bring his wife with him, and she had proved to be as vapid as she was beautiful. While waiting in the parlor before dinner the two had managed to find common ground in clothing, but Rachel could only talk so much about linens and patterns. Then they had talked about hair, Ava gushing about how she wished she could have such naturally thick, straight, and blonde hair although they both knew her own brunette curls were much closer to the current fashion. After some time, the conversation had switched to baby talk: a sore subject in the McCann house. Ava Fenton, it turned out, was expecting. Rachel forced herself to be cheerful and enthusiastic about it but was relieved when dinner was announced.

"Mrs. McCann," Bogue addressed her, snapping her out of her reverie. "Thank you for hosting this wonderful party. Traveling so much as we do, one does begin to miss a home-cooked meal."

Rachel gave a dazzling smile in response. "Of course, Mr. Bogue. And, please, do feel free to call me Rachel." Under the table James gave her knee a gentle squeeze. A shiver went down her spine, despite the warmth of the room. She wanted to slap that hand away.

"You're from Boston, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

James, judging the conversation would be safe, turned his attentions elsewhere. Bogue leaned in a little closer now. "And, as a former city girl, how do find frontier life?"

"Well, I've been out here for three years now and, while it is not quite what I imagined it would be, it is charming. Although, California is a bit more civilized than some places we have been through." Here she offered another smile which Bogue returned. "A little lonelier than I thought, perhaps, with James being away as often as he is, but I make do."

"Oh, and how would that be? What occupies the time of a wife on the range?"

She bristled slightly. His tone was light-hearted, but there was something in the way he asked it that made her think he might have been poking fun. "You wouldn't want to hear about that, Mr. Bogue. I'm sure my day-to-day affairs cannot be interesting to a man with as much power and authority as yourself."

He leaned back a bit, an eyebrow raising in amusement. Retaliation jab received. "You were a school teacher before you married?"

"I was."

"James tells me you're a voracious reader."

"Yes, sir, I suppose that's true enough. I've just finished James' Daisy Miller."

"And how did you find it?"

Again, she had the feeling he was testing her. She stared into those cold, gray eyes trying to figure out what it was, exactly, he wanted her to say. "I thought it spoke volumes about the ridiculous way two cultures think of one another. Daisy happened to be caught in the cross-fire is all. As for Winterbourne…" she paused. "He placed Daisy on a pedestal and used her only as an excuse to fight against his Aunt and societal norms of Europe. She was who she was all along."

"Between you and I, Rachel," he lowered his voice to a more conspiratorial volume. "I found Daisy to be a willful girl and a social climber who overstepped her boundaries. Had she followed societal rules and customs, she would have never been in a position to catch this 'Roman fever'. I think she got what she deserved, in the end."

"Is that how you came into your fortune, Mr. Bogue? By following the rules and customs of society?" Her tone was so light and charming that even James, with an ear finely tuned for any sign of unruliness from his wife, did not seem notice the argument that was brewing. Bogue's eyes were dancing with a challenge, inviting her to argue further. Rachel knew she had to back off before it turned ugly. "While I respectfully disagree, we are all entitled to our opinions, sir."

"Mrs. McCann, Mr. Bogue, I hate to interrupt," Fenton said, leaning across the table. She could have kissed him. "But Ava's practically on fire-"

"Say no more!" She turned to her husband. "James, my love, could you please open a window? It is rather warm tonight." He called Cal, one of their two house staff, who promptly did so.

"Thank you, Rachel!" Ava exclaimed, fanning herself rapidly as the cool night air wafted in. "I thought I was going to melt." Despite her earlier misgivings, Rachel couldn't help but feel a surge of affection for the younger woman. The conversation changed into a table-wide discussion of how Ava was feeling and all the excitement that went along with babies.

They almost made it through the meal without an incident.

The Fentons and some of the others departed shortly after dessert leaving her with Bogue, James, and one or two other men that she did not know very well for coffee and cigars. They were talking about their next work venture, getting it all out of their systems before they embarked on their second stop of the evening, the saloon, to celebrate the Fenton's newest addition. Rachel fiddled with the linen napkin in her lap knowing James would consider it rude if she excused herself.

"Unfortunately, gentleman," Bogue began. "Rose Creek is already beginning to prove itself a difficult venture. They seemed to find my offer… offensive." The men around the table broke into laughter and suddenly her interest was piqued. She couldn't place her finger on it, but the name of the town was familiar to her.

"What is it you do exactly, Mr. Bogue?"

He leaned back in the chair, fixing his eye on her as he took a long drag from the cigar. "Why, I'm a property man." This caused a fresh gale of laughter. "Mining towns are not always as successful as they are advertised to be. When they fail, I buy them out and I turn a profit." He raised his hands in a gesture of good will. "The townspeople get their money and so do I. Everyone's happy."

James patted her thigh, offering her a handsome smile. "And if they ain't, well, that's where I come in."

Rachel's brow furrowed. "But why would they be unhappy with compensation like that?"

"I suppose some feel they deserve more than what I have generously offered."

She'd overheard enough to know that wasn't precisely true. "Do they not?" The hand that had been resting on her leg stiffened.

The room fell silent and she knew that had absolutely been the wrong thing to say.

Unlike her husband, whom she could feel glaring daggers at her, Bogue actually seemed amused. "For a town that could not survive without financial assistance from someone who is better equipped than they to run it?" He took a drink. "I pay them more than a decent price."

"But they did all the hard labor," she insisted. She remembered the town she had lived in, before she had been married. It had been similar to the one they were talking about now and those people had been decent and hard-working. James had a vice-like grip on her thigh, urging her to stop now before she made it worse for herself. "They are the ones who settled it, is all I meant. It's- well, it's not exactly fair is it?"

"My dear," Bogue gave her an indulgent smile. "Life is not fair. These places are failing and it is unlikely they will find a better deal than the one I present to them."

The missing piece of the puzzle came to her then. She had heard talk in town, recently, about how they had found gold in Rose Creek. So that was his game: swoop in at the last minute and reap all the reward. "Failing or struggling, Mr. Bogue? The two are vastly different and, I beg you will forgive me, I find it hard to believe that you can manage to turn a profit with every so-called failing town you happen upon… unless they've already found that profit for you."

"Rachel!" James interjected.

"Excuse me," she said, scooting her chair back and standing. "I'm not feeling well."

She hurried out of the room, her stomach in knots as she wondered what had gotten into her. The hallway was considerably cooler and less smoky than the dining room. She leaned against the floral printed wallpaper, trying to stop her head from swimming. The door opened and closed again, boot steps echoing against the hardwood floor.

She was in so much trouble.

James was in front of her. "What in the hell was that?" he demanded. She stepped to the side, trying to get away from him, but with a clenched fist he punched the wall just inches from her head, outstretched arm preventing her from leaving. With his free hand, he grabbed her upper arm, pulling her back. His face was so close to hers that their noses touched. The sweet smell of tobacco filled her nose, almost gagging her. "How dare you embarrass me like that?"

"I-I'm so-sorry," she finally managed to stutter. Her blue eyes filled with tears that she tried to blink away.

"Sorry may not cut it this time, Rachel. You get in there and apologize right now, d'you hear me?" His fingers dug in harder. "But this-" he motioned between them. "Ain't over. I will deal with you later."

"Yes, sir," she whispered, looking down at the floor.

"Good girl."

He hauled her back to the dining room entrance, only removing his grip just before they reappeared inside. She hastily swiped under her eyes. Dry.

The others had left, likely to grab their coats, but Bogue remained in his seat at the head of the table. Rachel stopped just beside him. "Mr. Bogue, I apologize for my behavior earlier. I was… out of line. I do hope you can forgive me."

He looked up at her with a smile on his face. He'd won and he knew exactly the amount of trouble she was going to have to endure as a result. "Rachel, my dear, no apology was necessary." He patted her hand. "We will, however, be taking our leave. Thank you, again, for such a lovely meal."

"Of course, sir."

(-)

"Raaaachel! Honey! Get down here!" a boisterous voice hollered as the front door slammed shut.

Rachel sat up in bed; she knew that voice. It was James' drunk voice. She threw the quilt off of her, nearly flying out of bed as another loud chorus of "Raaaaaaachel!" reached her ears.

"He's going to wake the whole house," she murmured as pulled on her dressing robe. But for all the irritation in her voice, her hands were shaking as she tried to work the buttons.

As it turned out, he had. Cal, bleary-eyed and robed, stumbled into the parlor just as Rachel was coming down the stairs. James' face broke into a grin as Rachel bustled in. "There's my girl!" he proclaimed, stumbling slightly. He reeked of cigarettes and the stale, sour smell of too much alcohol. "You're dismissed, Cal, goan back to bed."

She shot a look at Rachel who nodded her agreement. "I can handle it from here, thank you, Cal. Tell Sam that I'm sorry, please?"

"Of course, Missus Rachel."

Rachel smiled at her, but it did not quite reach her eyes. When Cal was gone, James wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in close, pressing his lips against hers. He tasted as bitter as he smelled and it was a relief when he finally stopped.

"I am sorry about the way I- I behaved earlier."

He took her face between his hands, gray eyes not quite able to follow her own in his drunken stupor. "We'll make a good wife of you yet." Her body stiffened at his words and anger coursed through her. She stamped it down, knowing that would only make things worse. Besides, this was what she had signed up for. She forced a smile. "I don't know what you did tonight," he said, kissing down her neck. "But you left one hell of an impression on Bart. He said he was very taken with you."

That had to have been a lie on Bogue's part, but it explained was why he was home in such a good mood. "James, darling," she said as she tried to extricate herself from his grip. "Perhaps we should take this upstairs? What if Cal comes back?"

"Mmm, she ain't coming back," he replied, tightening his hold around her waist while one hand pawed at the buttons on the front of her robe. "Rachel, I want to have a baby."

Inwardly, she sighed. Like they hadn't been struggling for months already. She supposed she could thank Ava Fenton for the renewed interest. Rachel interlaced her fingers with his and guided it to her face, kissing his palm before resting it against her cheek. "I told you we would keep trying. But can we go upstairs? Please, my love?"

He kissed her again and she struggled against him, putting her hands on his chest to try and push away. He moved the hand that had been on her cheek around to the back of her head and pulled her closer. Panic set in. Her heart pounded in her chest. Words flew through her brain but nothing seemed able to come out of her mouth so she did the only thing she could think of to get him away from her: she bit down on his lower lip.

"Son of a bitch!" James swore as he pulled back. It hadn't been hard enough to make him bleed, but he touched it anyway.

Rachel cursed herself. He had been in a good mood, the waters had been calm. That had been a stupid, stupid thing to do.

His body was motionless. His eyebrows knitted together then smoothed out again. The hand at his side tightened into a fist.

She turned, ready to stammer out profuse apologies, when that fist connected with the side of her face. It had not been entirely unexpected, but the force sent her stumbling back where she tripped over the rug and fell backward onto the floor. The back of her head smacked against the table with an audible thwack. She struggled into a sitting position, confused, as a dull throb radiated through her skull.

Then the dam broke.

It was not something she thought she would ever, truly get used to. She held her arms over her head, trying to shield herself from the worst of the blows. She didn't scream, didn't cry out. Instead she prayed that it would be over soon.

"Mister McCann?" It was a deep male's voice this time. Cal's husband. They were just out of the line of sight from the entrance.

James froze and took a steadying breath. "Yes, Samuel?"

"Everything alright, sir?"

James closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. The abuse was not exactly a secret around the McCann household, but he never liked an audience. He indicated she keep quiet. She nodded and he walked toward the door. "Just had a bit of a-"

Rachel didn't bother listening to the rest. The instant his back was turned she began crawling toward the billiard room. The thick, padded rug burning her knees but keeping her movements quiet. If she could get in there and lock the door, she had a chance of escaping him. For tonight, anyway. She had reached the hardwood. Freedom was just a few more inches away.

"I thought I told you to stay put." His voice stopped her cold. A booted foot kicked her from behind causing her to go sprawling forward. Her chin hit the slates with an audible click as her teeth came together. The taste of copper filled her mouth, her low jaw and tongue aching fiercely. James tangled one hand in her hair and hoisted her to her feet. She inhaled sharply, but did not cry out. He turned her face toward his, those steely gray eyes both cold and exacting. "Apparently, you need another lesson."

"No, James, please." The words were out before she could stop them. Silent tears sprung to her eyes, but his face remained unmoved.

Instead of responding, he dragged her forward and up the stairs. When they were inside her bedroom, he threw her to the ground and slammed the door.

Her blue eyes were glued to him as she watched him take off his belt with an expert hand. "Turn 'round and face the bed." She did as instructed, hating herself but hating him more. Steeling herself against what was to come, she grabbed the wooden posts at the end of the mattress. She could feel his eyes crawling all over her as he admired his previous handiwork. Worn leather slid tenderly down her back. "I think thirty should do it, don't you?"

Without warning, the belt flicked backward then forward again hitting her skin with a thunderous crack. As he counted aloud, each hit came a little faster, a little harder. Several times he hit the same place and she felt the skin burst open there accompanied by a thin trickle of something warm.

When it was over, her whole body shook with a combination of exhaustion and relief. Knowing what was expected of her next, she pulled the gown back up and got to her feet. She stood in front of him, eyes on the floor. "You know I hate to do it," he lied, throwing the belt on the floor. "But you know why I had to, right?" She nodded. He leaned down to kiss her. She flinched away, but quickly corrected the reaction. "I expect you down for breakfast in the morning."

"Yes, sir."

"Good girl."