The rest, she gave away in her father’s name. Sam and Bryan never knew. She didn’t need them to. They’d gotten what they wanted. So had she. Late one afternoon, as she watered the first row of wildflowers blooming against the fence, she thought of her father—his boots thudding across the barn floor, his whistle echoing through the rafters.
And for the first time in months, she didn’t ache when she remembered him. She smiled. “I found it, Dad,” she whispered, brushing the soil from her palms. “Thanks for everything.” The wind picked up. The sun slipped behind the trees. And in the quiet rustle of the leaves, she almost heard him whistle back.