Chapter 8 #3
Strength left him with the thought, and he sat on the edge of the bed.
BUD/S had been the right choice. It had given him what he’d wanted most after Bailee’s rejection, a place to bury that slow, gnawing ache with work and purpose.
But distraction had its limits. He missed his team and the steady scrape of Flint’s nails on the floor.
He missed her.
The admission hit like a knife between the ribs.
He missed the way she’d argue with him about nothing, the spark in her eyes when she thought she had him cornered.
Now that he knew what it felt like to kiss that soft mouth, to feel the fire in her, the silk of her skin beneath his palms, the way she’d clung to him as if he mattered, he couldn’t breathe for it.
Sleep came fitful and broken, the hollowness inside him echoing with the memory of her voice.
If he had the courage to speak to her, his truth, the way he’d done to Brick and the students under his tutelage, maybe the ache wouldn’t own him.
He thought of Flynn Gallagher, all that fire and no outlet, and wanted the kid to succeed.
Was he being a coward, stingy with what he’d learned?
If one of his own tribe had come to him instead of Flynn, would he have turned him away?
He shifted, unease threading through the quiet. Had his isolation served him at all? Or had it been fear masquerading as discipline? There was shame in that thought. Giving freely of what he knew, of what had saved him, was the truest form of humility.
Who had he really served by his silence?
“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, hok?íla,” he said softly, the single word a reminder of all the years between them, all the things never said.
Bear’s throat tightened. “I don’t know if I’d recognize it anymore.”
They sat in silence for a while. The only sounds were the crickets and the occasional low strum of Chayton’s guitar from inside.
Finally, Ray said, “Ayla would’ve been proud of you. Both of you boys. She had your stubbornness.”
Bear’s hands stilled on the railing. “Where would she be now, if she hadn’t been taken?”
Ray exhaled smoke, the ember flaring red. “Somewhere raising her own hell, probably. But the world took her, and the Creator left you here to make something of the loss. Don’t waste it.”
Bear turned that over, the ache of her absence older than any scar. “I’m trying. Some days it feels like I’ve been doing penance instead of living.”
Ray’s eyes shifted toward him, sharp even in the dim. “Penance doesn’t serve anyone. You remember what Zorro told you after that first op?”
Bear gave a short, tired laugh. “To stop carrying ghosts that didn’t ask to be carried.”
Ray smiled faintly. “Maybe it’s time to listen.”
Before Bear could answer, the screen door creaked and Nathaniel stepped onto the porch, barefoot, still wearing his graduation medal.
“You two look like you’re fixing the world out here,” he said, dropping onto the railing.
Bear watched him, saw the same fire he’d seen in Flynn Gallagher, the kind that burned too bright to stay contained.
“Just talking about the past,” Bear said.
Than leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Good. I’ve been thinking about the future.”
Ray chuckled. “Here it comes.”
“I want to be a SEAL,” Nathaniel said simply.
The words hung there, bold, certain, inevitable.
Bear’s breath left him slowly. The kid’s determination didn’t surprise him. It scared him. Yet somewhere beneath the worry came a pull of recognition. Flynn’s face flashed in his mind, the same spark, the same hunger.
“Before you decide what you think of my career path, I want to say something important. I need you to listen, ’cause I know it’s going to be hard.
” Nathaniel shifted, the wind catching the ends of his long hair.
“I got everything you didn’t. Mom, things that kids need, things they just want.
I got all of that because of you. Whether you like it or not, it’s made an impact on me.
I’m grateful, Dakota. Humbled by your sacrifice, because it gave me this amazing childhood. ”
“Than—”
“No, let me finish.” He stepped closer, voice steadying.
“Everything I am is because of you, Grandfather Ray, the Lakota, and Mom. I want to do something that gives back. I want to challenge myself, be limitless. Use everything I’ve learned, everything you all taught me.
” His voice broke. “Leaving home, cutting my hair, facing things I don’t understand…
I know I’m naive about the world beyond the rez.
But that only pushes me harder. That sense of purpose can only be fulfilled one way. The SEAL way.”
Bear leaned back, eyes on the dark fields beyond the porch.
“It’s not an easy road.” His brother was right.
It would be culture shock. Bear remembered it well, the strange looks, the difference in how people treated him, his own naivete about the world.
He could help ease Than into it before the strife and struggle of BUD/S hit.
“Wouldn’t want it if it was,” Nathaniel shot back, and Ray’s quiet laugh rolled through the air like approval.
Bear felt the weight of his own silence, the truth he’d been avoiding. Isolation hadn’t served anyone, not the team, not Flynn, not his brother, not Bailee.
He nodded once, a decision settling inside him. “All right. If you’re serious, you’ll come back with me to Coronado. I’ll train you.”
Nathaniel’s grin was pure joy. “You mean it?”
Bear’s mouth curved. “I don’t say what I don’t mean.”
Ray puffed his pipe, the faint glow painting his face in amber light. “Seems the line keeps holding,” he said softly. “That’s all any of us can ask.”
“Ah, Dakota?”
“Yeah?”
Than winced. “You got some battle gear I can wear when we tell Mom?”
“We?”
Than laughed softly. “You’re her favorite, so you can smooth the way.”
Bear grinned and slapped his brother on the back. “I doubt even my smoothing’s going to be easy. Better learn now, the only easy day was yesterday.”
“Hoo-yah,” Than said, voice sharp and clear.
Bear looked between his grandfather’s steady pride and his brother’s raw hope, and something uncoiled in his chest. Maybe this was what living looked like—passing it on.
Out beyond the bluff, the stars were fierce and endless. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel alone under them. The weight he’d been carrying felt lighter, replaced by something that almost resembled hope.
Later on, Bear and the family attended Than’s jam session at a local café where he and his rock band played. Blown away by his baby brother’s talent, he marveled at his strong, pure voice as he sang.
Maybe it was time to start speaking again, to share what he’d learned, to lead from wisdom instead of silence. To speak from his truth. From his heart.
His only problem?
Would Bailee listen?