Winnie The Creak
WINNIE
The Creak
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
"I thought if I could touch this place or feel it / This brokenness inside me might start healing"
- Miranda Lambert
***
It was Saturday, and the Oklahoma sun was beating down with a vengeance, like it had a personal vendetta against anyone foolish enough to be outdoors.
We’d started at dawn with the usual grind—mucking stalls that seemed to refill themselves by magic, hauling fifty-pound feed bags until my shoulders screamed, and repairing a section of the north fence where a couple of cows had decided to stage a prison break.
By noon, my tank top was plastered to my back, my braid was sticking to my neck, and Beau—"New Beau," as he insisted on calling himself—looked about as wrung out as a wet dishrag.
His pearl snap shirt was untucked and dusted with hay, his cowboy hat pushed back to reveal a stripe of pale skin and a sheen of sweat where the brim usually sat. He looked exhausted. He looked dirty.
He looked surprisingly good.
But it was Pops who had the knot of worry tightening in my stomach.
He’d been quieter than usual all morning, moving with a hitch in his step that he tried to disguise as a casual stroll.
It wasn’t major—just a hesitation before lifting a bale, a sharp intake of breath when he bent to grab a tool.
At sixty-eight, he was tougher than men half his age, but ranch life didn’t forgive age; it exploited it.
I’d caught him rubbing his left knee during lunch, his knuckles white as he massaged the joint under the table.
"You alright, Pops?" I’d asked, keeping my tone light as I handed him a glass of iced tea, trying not to let my eyes linger on his leg.
"Fine as frog hair, darlin'. Just an old ache flarin' up. Barometer’s probably changin'." He’d winked, but the corners of his eyes didn't crinkle the way they usually did.
I didn't push it. Pops would rather eat barbed wire than admit he was in pain. But as we wrapped up the afternoon chores—scattering the last of the chicken feed while Pickles watched us with murder in his beady eyes—I kept a hawk’s eye on him.
When he stood up from the porch steps to head toward the barn, it took him an extra beat to straighten fully, his hand gripping the railing just a little too tight.
"Long day," Beau said, falling into step beside me. He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, flashing a strip of tanned, dusty abs that I absolutely did not notice. I definitely didn't notice the way the sweat tracked down the center of his chest, either. "Think we're done?"
"Almost. Just need to turn the horses out in the west pasture." I glanced back at Pops, who was trailing a few feet behind, his gait uneven. "Hey, Pops? You wanna call it a day? Head in for a shower and a cold one?"
He caught up, clapping a hand on my shoulder—firmer than I’d expected, like he was proving a point. "Nah. Too nice an afternoon to waste inside staring at the walls. Tell you what—why don't y'all saddle up and take a ride? Clear your heads. I'll join if my knee behaves."
"A ride?" Beau perked up, though I caught the flicker of genuine terror behind his blue eyes. He’d been on horses before—mostly that guided, grandma-speed trot around the arena with me holding the reins like he was a toddler—but nothing real. No trails. No open land.
"You up for it, city boy?" I teased, elbowing his ribs. "Or you gonna chicken out and stay behind to gossip with Pickles?"
Maybe I was an asshole. But truthfully? I just wanted to see if he’d take the bait.
Beau straightened, adjusting his hat with a mock bravado that was almost charming. "Please. I've been practicing. Daisy and I have a spiritual connection. Lead the way, cowgirl."
Pops chuckled, the sound a little wheezier than usual, but genuine. "That's the spirit. I'll saddle up ol' Thunder if y'all go. Meet at the barn in ten. We'll head down to the creek—been a while since I've been down that way."
The creek.
My chest tightened just a fraction. That was our creek—mine and Beau’s, from those golden, hazy summers when we were kids.
The place where we’d caught crawdads in mason jars, skipped stones until our shoulders ached, and sprawled on the bank watching clouds drift by while Nana packed us sandwiches we’d inevitably forget to eat because we were too busy being pirates or explorers.
I hadn't thought about it in years—not consciously, anyway—but finding those photos in the attic yesterday had brought it all rushing back in high definition. The creek had been our kingdom, our escape from adult conversations and chores we weren't tall enough to help with yet.
Ten minutes later, we were in the barn, the air thick with the scent of leather, sweet hay, and horses.
I grabbed Bandit's bridle first—my boy, all sleek black muscle and that knowing glint in his dark eyes.
At fourteen hands, he was a handful for most, energetic and whip-smart, but for me, he was home.
I murmured to him as I saddled him up, buckling the girth strap with practiced flicks of my wrist.
"You ready to show 'em how it's done, buddy?"
Bandit snorted, tossing his head like he understood every word. To be honest, he probably did.
Beau was fumbling with Daisy's saddle nearby, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration as he tried to cinch it without pinching her.
"Easy, girl," he muttered to the mare, who looked bored out of her mind. "Don't make me look bad in front of the boss. I'll give you extra carrots. I'll import carrots from France."
"You're already looking bad," I said, leaning over the stall door with a grin. "Tilt the saddle back a smidge—there. Now pull the strap. Not that tight; she'll buck you off if you squeeze her ribs like a toothpaste tube."
"Got it. See? I'm a natural." He stepped back, admiring his work. The saddle sat slightly crooked, but Daisy didn't seem to mind, mostly because she was busy searching his pockets for the promised bribes.
Pops ambled in with Thunder's saddle over his shoulder, moving deliberate but steady.
He didn't say anything about the knee, just got to work with the quiet efficiency of someone who’d done this ten thousand times.
Thunder, a bay gelding with a lazy eye and an even lazier gait, stood patiently as Pops settled the blanket.
"Alright," Pops said, swinging up onto Thunder with a grunt that he tried to play off as a sigh of contentment. "Let's head out to the creek trail. Keep it easy—Beau, you good on Daisy?"
"Never better," Beau lied, hoisting himself into the saddle with more enthusiasm than grace. He wobbled for a second, gripping the horn like it was the only thing tethering him to earth, then settled in with a determined nod. "See? Soulmates."
I rolled my eyes but swung up onto Bandit smoothly, feeling that familiar surge of connection as he shifted under me. "Just follow my lead. Walk first. No heroics, Sterling."
We rode out single file—me in front, Beau in the middle, Pops bringing up the rear on Thunder to keep an eye on the rookie.
The trail wound through the pastures, the grass turning golden under the late afternoon sun, wildflowers nodding along the edges.
It was peaceful, the kind of ride that made you forget the ache in your muscles and the dust in your lungs.
Red-winged blackbirds called overhead, and the distant low of cattle mixed with the creak of leather and the rhythmic thud of hooves.
As we descended the familiar path toward the creek, memory tugged at me—hard.
The cottonwoods lining the banks were taller now, their branches spreading wider than I remembered, but the curve of the trail was exactly the same.
The way the earth dipped just before the water came into view, the flat rock we used to sit on jutting out like a natural throne.
I'd been here a hundred times since those childhood summers, but riding it with Beau now felt different.
Like stepping into a photograph and finding it had color after all.
For the first ten minutes, Beau did okay.
Daisy was a gentle soul, a living rocking chair, plodding along at a steady walk without much prodding.
But I could hear him muttering under his breath, shifting his weight constantly, adjusting his grip on the reins like he expected Daisy to turn into a dragon at any moment.
"You holding on back there?" I called over my shoulder.
"Yep! Totally fine! This is... exhilarating," he called back, voice tight. "Not like my inner thighs are being slowly sawed in half or anything!"
Pops chuckled from behind. "First real ride's always a thrill. Just breathe, son. Let Daisy do the work. You're fightin' her."
We hit a slight incline, the trail dipping into a shallow gully lined with scrub brush. That's when Beau started slipping. Literally.
Daisy swayed as she navigated the uneven ground, a simple shift of weight, but it caught Beau off guard. He lurched to the side, one foot kicking out of the stirrup as he flailed to stay seated.
"Whoa—Daisy! Easy!" His voice pitched up an octave, arms windmilling like he was trying to achieve lift-off.
The horse paused, confused by the sudden interpretive dance happening on her back, but Beau managed to right himself—barely—clinging to the saddle horn with white-knuckled desperation.
I bit back a laugh, twisting in the saddle to look at him. "You kiss your mother with that death grip? Loosen up, Beau. You're gonna choke the saddle horn."
"I'm not—ah shit!" Another slip, this time caused by Daisy stepping over a root. His hat tumbled off his head and landed in the dirt. He twisted to grab for it, overcorrecting and nearly toppling off the other side. Daisy sidestepped, whinnying in protest at the incompetence.
Pops reined Thunder in, his face creased with amusement. "Boy, you ride like a sack of potatoes. Keep your heels down and your ass in the seat!"
"I'm trying! Gravity is personally victimizing me today!" Beau snatched his hat from the ground without dismounting—a miracle of physics—and jammed it back on, his face flushed redder than a sunburn. "Don't leave me behind, okay? I got this. I am one with the horse."
"We ain't leavin' you," I said, fighting a grin. "But if you fall off, I'm not carrying you home. Pickles can drag you back."
The trail leveled out near the creek, and the sight of it stopped me cold for just a breath.
The water sparkled under the sun like liquid diamonds, rushing over smooth stones worn down by decades of flow.
The flat rock was still there, bigger than I remembered but unmistakable, and the old rope swing Pops had tied to the tallest cottonwood hung limp, frayed at the edges but holding.
Beau didn't seem to notice the significance at first, too busy sliding off Daisy with exaggerated care and landing with a thud that sent dust puffing around his boots. But Pops caught my eye as he dismounted slower, favoring his knee heavily, and his smile was soft. Knowing.
"It's pretty, isn't it?" he said quietly, just for me.
I nodded, throat tight. "Yeah. It is."
We let the horses drink, their noses dipping into the cool water, ripples spreading outward. Beau stretched his legs, wincing and rubbing his lower back. "Okay, that was... fun. In a terrifying, bone-jarring way."
Pops leaned against a tree, taking weight off his leg, his gaze drifting to the swing. "Used to bring you kids here all the time. Winnie'd try to teach you to skip stones, Beau. You were terrible at it. Truly impressive lack of coordination."
Beau blinked, looking around the clearing like he was seeing it for the first time—or maybe the hundredth, through the haze of memory. "Oh... wait. This is the spot. From the picture in the attic." He walked toward the water's edge. "We used to come here a lot, didn't we?"
"Every summer," I said, keeping my voice light even as something twisted in my chest. "You cried once when you caught a crawdad and it pinched you."
"I did not cry."
"You absolutely cried. You wailed. Nana had to give you a popsicle to calm you down."
His face softened, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his features as he looked at the water. "I... I remember that. Sort of. The popsicle was orange."
"Grape," I corrected automatically. "Orange was mine."
Pops chuckled, shaking his head. "Good times. Simpler times." He straightened, wincing again as he adjusted his stance. "Alright, if y'all want, we can pick up a trot on the way back. Stretch their legs a bit before we head in."
My heart lifted despite the nostalgia weighing me down. A trot sounded perfect—nothing wild, just enough to feel the wind and shake off the ghosts. "I'm game. Bandit's itching for it."
Beau eyed Daisy like she might spontaneously sprout wings and fly into the sun. "Trot? Like... faster than walking? Is that necessary?"
"Relax, it's not a race," I said, swinging back into the saddle. Bandit pranced eagerly under me, ready to go. "Just nudge her with your heels. Gentle. Post with the rhythm."
Pops nodded, mounting up with a grimace he tried to hide. "I'll hang back. You two lead."