Cowboy, Take Me Away. Kathleen Eagle

wanna eat first?”

      Skyler looked up at the handsome face below the brim of the cowboy hat. “Why don’t we do this before we tackle the corn dogs?”

      Going up was fine. Uploading. Uplifting. Upstanding. It was all good. At the top of the arc, she looked up at the sky, darkening from the top down as though an angel had bumped a bottle of blue ink. It washed over the remains of crimson and gold as the stars popped open one by one and hovered playfully just out of reach. Better than good, she thought.

      “You won’t find any prettier country than this,” Trace said.

      Skyler nodded. Her stomach signaled the shift from ascent to descent and her smile stiffened. She gripped the lap bar.

      “You see that?” He laughed. “Guy just flew off the mechanical bull, landed on his head. Back to the bucking barrel for you, boy.” He lifted his arm over her head and laid it across the back of the seat, glanced at her and then did a double take. “You okay?”

      She nodded again. “Taller than I thought.”

      “Who, me?”

      “The thing. The wheel. We’re really high.”

      “Both of us? I was afraid it was just me. Gettin’ hooked on a …” He paused, gave a look of concern and a blessed break. “Heights bother you?”

      “A little.”

      “If you want me to, I can give the operator a distress signal when we hit bottom.”

      She shook her head. “No distress. Felt funny just because it was the first time around.” She offered a tight smile. “You?”

      “Yeah, a little.” He snugged her up and she scooted a little closer as they slid across home plate and started back up. “Okay?”

      “Talk to me. I don’t want to be a wimp.” But that was home. Total ground control. Wimp city was a secure no-fly zone. “My head says I’m fine, but some of my parts see it differently. I mean, my eyes are in my head, right? So how do my legs know how high up we are? And what’s with my stomach?”

      “It’s probably talking to your legs, saying get us off this thing. How serious is it? What does your gut tell you? Because if it’s saying—”

      “It isn’t. No rebellion in the making. It’s just acting silly.” She was looking up and out and feeling some improvement. But then came the lurch and the slow rocking, and she buried her face in his shirt. “Oh my God, we’re stopping.”

      “Somebody’s ride is over. We get down, yours will be, too.”

      “No, no, I have to do this.” Head up, shoulders back. Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing. “I have to make the whistle.”

      “Nobody’s scoring you, honey. You should’ve told me you don’t like—”

      “But I do. I mean, I want to. There’s so much to see from here. I like this spot right here. As long as I keep my chin up, there’s only up. Right?”

      “Right. You want a score? Lean back, hang on to me. But not with this arm.” He took her right hand from his shoulder and lifted it toward the sky. “That’s your free arm. Can’t touch this with that arm.”

      “Can’t touch what?”

      “Any of this.” He referred to himself, hat to boots, with a sweep of his free hand. “You gotta control yourself in the face of the uncontrollable.”

      “Is this a twelve-step challenge?”

      “Cowboy two-step, honey. We don’t count much higher than that. Lean back and hang on.”

      She laughed.

      “Not that we can’t, but why bother? It doesn’t get any better than two.”

      “Yes, it does. Two is just a start. Three is holy.”

      “Four is sacred.”

      “Seven is lucky.”

      “You are beautiful.” He touched her chin and she tipped her head to receive his kiss. A cool breeze lifted her hair while his warm kiss turned her sinking feeling into a rising one. “Feels like we’re moving,” she whispered against his lips.

      “It does.” He brushed her nose with his. “But we’re not.”

      “Let’s try again.” She paid his kiss back, thinking to improve on it with his help. His fingers teasing her nape helped. His distracting tongue, his soothing breath, the pleasured sound coming from deep in his throat. “You’re right,” she said at last. “Two is just a start.”

      “If we count down from ten, I think we’ll get liftoff.” Another mechanical groan set the wheels in motion. She stiffened. He cuddled her close. “Hold me, Skyler.”

      “You’ll deduct points.”

      “New rule,” he said. “The more you touch, the better your score.”

      She laughed. “You’ll get liftoff, and I’ll be left hanging.”

      “I’m not goin’ anywhere without you. Damn. We’re moving.”

      “Distract me again.”

      She didn’t have to ask twice. They kissed like teenagers who’d held off until the third date. She didn’t care about numbers anymore—how many times around, how many birthdays, how many seconds, points, days, dollars or debts—she was deliriously distracted, disappointed when the ride slowed down and started unloading passengers.

      “Mmm,” she crooned. “I think we made it.”

      “Not even close.” He winked at her as they came to their final stop. “But we will.”

      The ride operator—a clean-cut kid who might have been earning tuition money—grinned as Trace lifted his loop over Skyler’s head. “I was about to apologize for the delay, but looks like you did okay with it.”

      “What delay?” she asked.

      “Right after you guys got on we had to stop for a puking rider. You were probably stuck up top for a while, huh?”

      Skyler looked at Trace. “Were we?”

      He shrugged dramatically.

      “You can keep going if you want. Otherwise—” the kid offered tickets “—next ride’s on me.”

      “Thanks, but we’re good. We’re heading for the carousel.” Trace waved the offer off. “We’re horse people.”