Bailee felt it building in her chest, pressure and release, like breath fighting to escape. The word rose inside her, carried by the pulse of Bear’s chant and Than’s hauntingly beautiful voice.
She didn’t mean to open her mouth, but the sound came anyway, low, raw, the old language breaking free like it had been waiting like a held breath for years. The tones were high and low, a bit discordant at first, filled with regret, with pain, with failure, then they evened out, deepened in respect and connection. Her cadence called to the wind and the trees, to the air and the storm, to the seen and unseen, to the land beneath her feet. Her voice reached like a hand out-flung, not in desperation, but choice, for her grandmother, for her people, for everything she'd shunned. Her chest filled with her call, and as her grandmother gently reminded, she called to her, to her roots, to home. As if answering, her grandmother’s voice rose inside her, forgiving and certain. Come home, my girl. We hear your call. Come back to where you belong.
Her voice joined theirs, weaving through Than’s melody and Bear’s rhythm until the room felt alive with it, the old and the new, the land and the people, every heartbeat part of the same song.
The air shimmered with it. Fly blinked, his mouth parting. Shamrock wiped at his eyes without a word.
Bailee…she didn’t fight it. For the first time since she was a girl, she let the voice of her ancestors move through her, unfiltered and free.
One breath, one heartbeat,
the circle never breaks.
In the stillness between thunder and dawn,
we remember who we are.
Balance walks beside us,
not peace but belonging.
What we take, we give.
What we break, we mend.
This is Wolakota.
Not peace, but belonging.
Not silence, but balance.
We walk the same road,
side by side.
His voice was clear, young, full of something older than he was. When he finished, no one moved. The last chord hummed in the air, blending with the sound of the sea beyond the windows.
Bailee blinked hard, her throat tight. The word Wolakota echoed inside her chest: balance, harmony, the place where you belong. Maybe she’d been searching for it her whole life, and it had been waiting here, in the laughter of these men, in Bear’s quiet strength, in the song of a boy who carried the same blood she did.
For the first time in a long time, she felt homesick, not for a place, but for the rhythm of people who knew her language before she had to translate it. There was no fear in it, and that made her chest seize, and even as the song ended, she covered her eyes, her body yearning, her heart feeling a connection like no other, like everything was alive around her. Tears, hot and uncontrollable, massed and pushed against her lids. A soft sob escaped, and before she could even reach for Bear. He was there, pulling her against him, holding her in a tight embrace, and everything just melded together into home, breath, heart in his arms.
The boys quietly left the room, and she let her tears fall, soaking into his striking dark skin, as if her tears were rain and his soil, and something grew between them, intertwining like branches, lifeblood, soul.
He murmured in Lakota, the sound low and steady against her hair, words that didn’t need translating. She felt them more than heard them, a promise, a vow, sanctuary. She didn’t know how much she needed it until just this moment.
Hating to leave Bailee, even for a moment, Bear drove Fly back to his car at the beach. The kid was good enough to take Shamrock with him, and dropping Than off at Sleeping Wind saved Bear the round trip.
Fly leaned against the open door, still grinning, still a little dazed. “That was an experience I’ll never forget. Makes me homesick for Texas and the ranch. I just want to go home and hug my grandparents until my spirit settles.”
Shamrock nodded, scuffing the sand. “Aye, made me miss my sister like hell and even my brothers. Thanks for that, by the way. Siblings are usually relegated to annoying, and now I’m all weepy like an idgit.”
Than barked out a laugh. “We’ll try to keep it to ourselves. Pinky swear?”
Shamrock shoved him, but his grin was pure warmth. “Too late. I’ll have to punch someone just to recover.”
Fly straightened, hands tightening. “Don’t look at me. I’ve been ready to punch your lights out for those chips, anyway.”
“And three kinds of dip,” Shamrock grinned, eyes dancing.
