Description: The World''s Finest Mystery and Crime Stories: 5th edition Kristine Kathryn Rusch COWBOY GRACE Kristine Kathryn Rusch is an award-winning mystery, romance, science fiction, and fantasy writer. She has written many novels under various names, including Kristine Grayson for romance and Kris Nelscott for mystery. Her novels have made the bestseller lists--even in London--and have been published in fourteen countries and thirteen different languages. Her awards range from the Ellery Queen Readers Choice Award to the John W. Campbell Award. She is the only person in the history of the science fiction field to have won a Hugo Award for editing and a Hugo Award for fiction. Her short work has been reprinted in six Year''s Best collections. Currently, she is writing a series in all four of her genres: the Retrieval Artist series in science fiction; the Smokey Dalton series in mystery (written as Kris Nelscott); the Fates series in romance (written as Kristine Grayson); and the upcoming Fantasy Life series in fantasy. We are very pleased to lead off this year''s collection with "Cowboy Grace," her novella from the Silver Gryphon anthology published by Golden Gryphon Press, and which was nominated for the Mystery Writers of America''s Edgar Award for best short fiction. How many of us have just wanted to take off, to leave our own lives behind and head out for the horizon? Grace, the quiet, understated woman in this story, does just that, with results she couldn''t possibly have expected. "E very woman tolerates misogyny," Alex said. She slid her empty beer glass across the bar, and tucked a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear. "How much depends on how old she is. The older she is the less she notices it. The more she expects it." "Bullshit." Carole took a drag on her Virginia Slim, crossed her legs, and adjusted her skirt. "I don''t tolerate misogyny." "Maybe we should define the word," Grace said, moving to the other side of Carole. She wished her friend would realize how much the smoking irritated her. In fact, the entire night was beginning to irritate her. They were all avoiding the topic du jour: the tiny wound on Grace''s left breast, stitches gone now, but the skin still raw and sore. "Mis-ah-jenny," Carole said, as if Grace were stupid. "Hatred of women." "From the Greek," Alex said. " Misos or hatred and gyne or women." "Not," Carole said, waving her cigarette as if it were a baton, "misogamy, which is also from the Greek. Hatred of marriage. Hmm. Two male misos wrapped in one." The bartender, a diminutive woman wearing a red-and-white cowgirl outfit, completewith fringe and gold buttons, snickered. She set down a napkin in front of Alex and gave her another beer. "Compliments," she said, "of the men at the booth near the phone." Alex looked. She always looked. She was tall, busty, and leggy, with a crooked nose thanks to an errant pitch Grace had thrown in the ninth grade, a long chin, and eyes the color of wine. Men couldn''t get enough of her. When Alex rebuffed them, they slept with Carole and then talked to Grace. The men in the booth near the phone looked like corporate types on a junket. Matching gray suits, different ties--all in a complementary shade of pink, red, or cranberry--matching haircuts (long on top, styled on the sides), and differing goofy grins. "This is a girl bar," Alex said, shoving the glass back at the bartender. "We come here to diss men, not to meet them." "Good call," Carole said, exhaling smoke into Grace''s face. Grace agreed, not with the smoke or the rejection, but because she wanted time with her friends. Without male intervention of any kind. "Maybe we should take a table," Grace said. "Maybe." Carole crossed her legs again. Her mini was leather, which meant that night she felt like being on display. "Or maybe we should send drinks to the cutest men we see." They scanned the bar. Happy Hour at the Oh Kaye Corral didn''t change much from Friday to Friday. A jukebox in the corner, playing Patty Loveless. Cocktail waitresses in short skirts and ankle boots with big heels. Tin stars and Wild West art on the walls, unstained wood and checkered tablecloths adding to the effect. One day, when Grace had Alex''s courage and Carole''s gravelly voice, she wanted to walk in, belly up to the bar, slap her hand on its polished surface, and order whiskey straight up. She wanted someone to challenge her. She wanted to pull her six-gun and have a stare-down, then and there. Cowboy Grace, fastest gun in the West. Or at least in Racine on a rainy Friday night. "I don''t see cute," Alex said. "I see married, married, divorced, desperate, single, single, never-been-laid, and married." Grace watched her make her assessment. Alex''s expression never changed. Carole was looking at the men, apparently seeing whether or not she agreed. Typically, she didn''t. "I dunno," she said, pulling on her cigarette. "Never-Been-Laid''s kinda cute." "So try him," Alex said. "But you''ll have your own faithful puppy dog by this time next week, and a proposal of marriage within the month." Carole grinned and slid off the stool. "Proposal of marriage in two weeks," she said. "I''m that good." She stubbed out her cigarette, grabbed the tiny leather purse that matched the skirt, adjusted her silk blouse, and sashayed her way toward a table in the middle. Grace finally saw Never-Been-Laid. He had soft brown eyes, and hair that needed trimming. He wore a shirt that accented his narrow shoulders, and he had a laptop open on the round table. He was alone. He had his feet tucked under the chair, crossed at the ankles. He wore dirty tennis shoes with his Gap khakis. "Cute?" Grace said. "Shhh," Alex said. "It''s a door into the mind of Carole." "One that should remain closed." Grace moved to Carole''s stool. It was still warm.Grace shoved Carole''s drink out of her way, grabbed her glass of wine, and coughed. The air still smelled of cigarette smoke. Carole was leaning over the extra chair, giving Never-Been-Laid a view of her cleavage, and the guys at the booth by the phone a nice look at her ass, which they seemed to appreciate. "Where the hell did that misogyny comment come from?" Grace asked. Alex looked at her. "You want to get a booth?" "Sure. Think Carole can find us?" "I think Carole''s going to be deflowering a computer geek and not caring what we''re doing." Alex grabbed her drink, stood, and walked to a booth on the other side of the Corral. Dirty glasses from the last occupants were piled in the center, and the red-and-white checkered vinyl tablecloth was sticky. They moved the glasses on the edge of the table and didn''t touch the dollar tip, which had been pressed into a puddle of beer. Grace set her wine down and slid onto her side. Alex did the same on the other side. Somehow they managed not to touch the tabletop at all. "You remember my boss?" Alex asked as she adjusted the tiny fake gas lamp that hung on the wall beside the booth. "Beanie Boy?" She grinned. "Yeah." "Never met him." "Aren''t you lucky." Grace already knew that. She''d heard stories about Beanie Boy for the last year. They had started shortly after he was hired. Alex went to the company Halloween party and was startled to find her boss dressed as one of the Lollipop Kids from the Wizard of Oz, complete with striped shirt, oversized lollipop, and propeller beanie. "Now what did he do?" Grace asked. "Called me honey." "Yeah?" Grace asked. "And sweetie, and dollface, and sugar." "Hasn''t he been doing that for the last year?" Alex glared at Grace. "It''s getting worse." "What''s he doing, patting you on the butt?" "If he did, I''d get him for harassment, and he knows it." She had lowered her voice. Grace could barely hear her over Shania Twain. "This morning one of our clients came in praising the last report. I wrote it." "Didn''t Beanie Boy give you credit?" "Of course he did. He said, ''Our little Miss Rogers wrote it. Isn''t she a doll?" Grace clutched her drink tighter. This didn''t matter to her. Her biopsy was benign. She had called Alex and Carole and told them. They''d suggested coming here. So why weren''t they offering a toast to her life? Why weren''t they celebrating, really celebrating, instead of rerunning the same old conversation in the same old bar in the same old way. "What did the client do?" "He agreed, of course." "And?" "And what?" "Is that it? Didn''t you speak up?" "How could I? He was praising me, for God''s sake." Grace sighed and sipped her beer. Shania Twain''s comment was that didn''t impress her much. It didn''t impress Grace much either, but she knew better than to say anything to Alex. Grace looked toward the middle of the restaurant. Carole was standing behind Never-Been-Laid, her breasts pressed against his back, her ass on view to the world, her head over his shoulder peering at his computer screen. Alex didn''t follow her gaze like Grace had hoped. "If I were ten years younger, I''d tell Beanie Boy to shove it." "If you were ten years younger, you wouldn''t have a mortgage and a Mazda." "Dignity shouldn''t be cheaper than a paycheck," she said. "So confront him."

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