“Dinner soon,” his mother called from downstairs.
He stood and smoothed the creases out of his shirt. In the hall Chayton was coming toward him, easy and quiet in the way of men who listened before they spoke. He stopped short when he saw Bear, and for a beat the two men measured one another in that careful, unspoken way men do.
“You guys covered our asses over there,” Chayton said. “Your mom told me you’re a dog handler. What’s his name?”
“Flint,” Bear said. “All black. All badass.”
Chayton chuckled, a soft sound that made the air warmer. “I’m sure. Marines are tough, but Navy SEALs—” He shook his head with a slow, approving smile. “They are a cut above.”
Bear’s smile was small. “Be good to my mom, or you might see a side of me you won’t like.”
Chayton’s expression sobered, not in offense but in promise. He reached out and squeezed Bear’s shoulder with a hand steady as stone.
“You don’t have to worry anymore, Dakota. We’ve got them, all of them, together.”
His voice carried no boast, no edge, only the quiet certainty of a man who had claimed a place and intended to keep it.
The words hit harder than Bear expected. He thought of his father, dying alone with a bottle, no one there to steady him. Chayton meant what he said, and the truth of it went straight through him.
“You love her,” Bear asked softly, “and Than and Lala Ray?”
“With everything I am,” Chayton said. “I do. I want to know you, too. I’m here for the long haul.”
Bear let the grip linger a moment longer, then nodded. That simple squeeze landed inside him like permission. He could love this home and still love the job. He could miss Bailee and still stand here, present, with the people who had kept him upright when the world tilted.
The ache stayed, but it was no longer the only thing in the room.
Graduation day moved fast, a blur of faces and heat and the sweet scent of fry bread carried on the wind. Nathaniel’s name had been called, the tassel turned, and Bear had felt something solid shift in his chest, a pride so deep it hurt. He’d sat with his mom, Chayton, and Grandfather Ray, all of them cheering and unable to stop smiling.
Nathaniel Locklear stood at the podium, Valedictorian of his class, the school gym alive with color and pride. His cap tassel brushed against his cheek as he looked out over the crowd, his family in the back row, his grandfather’s proud stillness, his mother’s tearful smile, Chayton’s easy grin, and Bear’s steady gaze.
Bear had always known his little brother would stop traffic one day. Nathaniel carried the kind of beauty that wasn’t soft; it struck like sunlight off steel. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, eyes dark and alive with something half-wild, half-wise. The wind had its own plans for his hair, and it fell in loose braids and black ribbons that caught the light when he moved.
There was power in him, not just in the set of his shoulders or the lines of muscle that spoke of a life spent outdoors, but in the stillness he carried. The same stillness Bear had learned to respect in warriors, the quiet before the storm, the calm that made others look twice.
Looking at him now, Bear saw every promise of what Nathaniel could become: protector, leader, a man born to shoulder weight and never complain about the load. A future hero, carved from the same blood and soil, carrying their people’s strength into whatever came next.
He’d written the speech himself, refused to let anyone edit it. The principal had called it inspiring. Bear just thought it sounded like Nathaniel.
“Tonight,” his brother began, voice carrying across the hushed room, “we leave behind what we’ve known, but not who we are. We’re sons and daughters of this land, and the earth remembers every step our people have taken. The world may not always see us, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t capable of changing it. We can make our mark, through courage, through honor, through the choices we make when no one’s watching.”
He paused, scanning the crowd, his eyes finding Bear.
“My brother, Dakota Locklear, showed me that. He’s both a Navy SEAL and a Lakota son. He never forgot where he came from, and neither should we. You don’t have to leave home to serve your people, but if you do, carry them with you. The strength of the Lakota runs deep, and the world is better when it feels our footsteps.”
Applause rolled through the gym like thunder. Bear felt the sound in his chest more than in his ears. The pride that rose in him was heavy and warm, almost painful.
The celebration that followed sprawled across the yard until dusk, laughter rising from every corner. Old friends came with stories, kids ran through the grass, and his mother’s new man, Chayton, sat with his guitar under the porch light, singing songs that blended the old language with English. Bear listened from the edge of it all, the sound of Chayton’s voice threading through the hum of conversation, grounding the night in something peaceful and right.
For the first time in years, his family looked whole.
When the last of the guests left and the lanterns burned low, Bear wandered out to the porch where Grandfather Ray sat in his old chair, pipe smoke curling into the dark. He dropped into the seat beside him, the boards creaking beneath his weight. The air was cool now, the prairie stretching endless and quiet under the stars.
Ray studied him for a long moment before speaking. “Your mother’s happy.”
“She is,” Bear said. “She deserves that.”
Ray nodded, gaze on the horizon. “You do, too, hokšíla,” he said softly, the single word a reminder of all the years between them, all the things never said.
