Page 12 of Fern’s Date with Destiny (Heart Falls Vignette and Novella Collection #4)

T he house was half-asleep in that lazy holiday stretch between Christmas and the New Year. Snow muffled the world beyond the windows; somewhere deep inside, the woodstove cracked and sighed.

Fern found her dad exactly where she knew he’d be. Sprawled on the big old sofa, sock feet crossed on the coffee table, half snoozing, half reading a battered Louis L’Amour novel.

She hovered in the doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest.

She’d had time to think more about Cody. And Cody’s choices. To ponder the whys of his leaving and to really consider if she was ready and willing to sign up for more.

Answers hovered, but before locking them down, she needed to get some affirmation from the best man she knew.

Malachi didn’t look up right away. He turned a page with deliberate calm then slid a glance over the top of his glasses. “Something on your mind, baby girl?”

She crossed the room before she could talk herself out of it, dropped onto the rug at his feet, and leaned her shoulder against his knee.

She felt more than heard him close the book.

“I think,” Fern murmured, staring into the fire’s orange glow, “I’ve gotten involved with a man who doesn’t know how to share what he’s feeling. And he thinks not talking is the kindest thing he can do for me.”

Silence. Only the crackle of burning logs and the old grandfather clock ticking steady in the hall.

Her dad’s big hand settled on her crown, fingers petting her curls the same way he had when she was six and scraped her knee. As when she was fourteen and pissed off at rude comments about her arm.

Or when she was seventeen and swore she’d never need anyone in her life to feel complete.

“You cry over him every day?” Malachi asked finally.

Fern sniffed. “Not every day. I cried the first few mornings. But then I got mad, and now I just want to find him so I can shake him hard enough he sees sense.”

A low chuckle rumbled through her father’s chest. He squeezed the back of her neck, gentle but firm.

“Most relationships are worth a few tears. If he’s the one who makes your blood heat because you know he’s smart enough to eventually admit exactly how foolish he’s been”—his hand shifted, tipping her chin until he could see her eyes—“then he’s worth fighting for. No halfway.”

She swallowed around the knot in her throat. It made sense. It was the conclusion she’d come to.

Yet inside, fear took one more turn at winning. “What if I fight and he won’t let me in?”

“Then at least you know you stood your ground.” Malachi’s thumb traced the line of her cheek, brushing away the dampness she hadn’t noticed. “You were born stubborn, Fernie. You were born to run toward hard things, not away from them. Don’t let his fear decide your story.”

She folded into him then. A brief, fierce hug that smelled of soap and flannel and home. For a heartbeat, she was small again, safe under his arm.

When she pulled back, her laugh was watery but sure. “I’ve still got my old goal book up in my room. Might be time to update it.”

Malachi grinned, kissing her forehead. “Write it in big letters, sweetheart: He’s worth it. ”

After her dad drifted off to make another cup of tea, Fern climbed the stairs to her room. She ducked under the sloped ceiling at the side of the dormer, heart pounding for no good reason, and tugged open the bottom drawer of her oldest dresser.

There it was, buried under a stack of forgotten watercolour practice books. A cheap spiral-bound journal with GOALS written across the cover in purple glitter pen, letters half-rubbed away by time and too many flipped pages.

She sank cross-legged on her bed and carefully opened it.

The first few pages were painfully childish. Crooked letters declaring Live in a castle and Have my own horse to eventually Own my own cupcake store.

She kept turning, each page a little older, a little braver. Get into art school. Make Mom and Dad proud. Prove I can do anything I truly want to do.

The page turned and her lips twitched up at the sight. Her relationship goal, for whatever reasons, here it was, circled a dozen times. Twenty-four years old. Figure out my forever person.

A laugh hiccuped out of her, even as tears stung the corners of her eyes. Twenty-four. She’d made a goal then trusted the universe would tell her who when it was time. Destiny, she’d called it. A word that still tasted sweet on her tongue when she thought about Cody.

And figure out didn’t just mean find . It meant more.

She brushed her thumb across the ink, closing her eyes for one heartbeat, two. “Guess I’m right on schedule, huh?” she whispered to the empty room.

When she looked up, her reflection in the mirror above her desk was fierce. Steady.

If Cody Gabrielle thought he could run from whatever storm he’d tangled himself in—run from her—he was about to learn exactly how stubborn Fern Fields could be.

She snapped the journal shut, stood, and squared her shoulders.

I’m ready for you, cowboy.

He wasn’t supposed to be here tonight.

Hell, Cody had told himself half a dozen times on the drive back from the airport that he wouldn’t set foot in her house again until he could face Fern without feeling as if he was about to split wide open.

But Chance had cornered him that afternoon at Red Boot, blocking the barn aisle like a bull moose, arms crossed. The expression in his eyes that said big brother knows everything.

“The Fields are gathering tonight for one of their ‘we’re celebrating something, but mostly we just want to get together’ events. You’re coming,” Chance said.

Not asked, declared.

When Cody opened his mouth, Chance shook his head. “No excuses. Not this time. You need your people. And Fern— She needs you, you stubborn git. So park your pride and show up. We’re picking you up so you won’t be a gobshite.”

Now here Cody was, boots dripping on the Fields’ front doormat, the whole damn clan somewhere in the back of the house promising a warmth he didn’t deserve. The smell of chili and fresh bread. The feel of home.

And Fern.

God help him, Fern .

She caught him dead to rights the second he stepped inside, no more dark corners or excuses. Just her standing there, one palm flat on the front door as if she’d bar the whole world from coming or going until she got her say.

He tried for casual, which was a stupid reflex. “Hey.”

Not sweetheart. Not Fern. Just a damn hey , as if they were strangers. It made his tongue taste like ashes.

Her eyes flared.

Shit . He knew that look. He was a dead man walking.

When Rose dragged Chance toward the kitchen, Fern stepped in so close her shampoo, that faint honey-vanilla warmth that had haunted him clear across the Atlantic, hooked him in the nose and held him fast.

Fern grabbed his collar, not gently. “Upstairs. Now.”

He could’ve joked. Could’ve bolted.

He didn’t.

He let her steer him like a horse on a lead rope past the photo wall where little Fern grinned toothily at the camera, past the half-open doors full of family noise and safe chaos.

Up to her bedroom, tidy and bright and so very her.

When she shut the door behind them, the quiet hit him like a slap.

He braced his back against her dresser, every muscle tight. He’d faced charging cattle, ice storms, Chance’s right hook when he deserved it, but none of it terrified him half as much as Fern Fields glaring at him as if she might burn him alive if he disappointed her again.

Silence fell heavy enough to bend his knees.

“You don’t get to do this,” Fern said. Her voice wasn’t loud. Didn’t need to be.

He braced a hand on the dresser, the edge digging into his back. “Fern?—”

“Don’t.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. It landed right over his heart, and he swore the traitorous thing stumbled under her touch. “You left . You didn’t text. You didn’t call. You let me sit here in confusion, wondering what I did wrong.”

“Sweetheart—”

“I am not your sweetheart when you treat me like an inconvenience you can put away when you feel like it.” Her voice cracked.

She sucked in a breath, steadying herself.

“But that’s not what the real problem is.

Yes, I want to be your sweetheart, but you’re first and foremost supposed to be my friend . ”

His chest tightened. Oh, for fuck’s sake .

He looked away at the posters above her desk. Dream Big. Yes You Can. She’d scribbled a crooked heart in the corner of one of them.

We Are The Ones Who Make Our Possibilities Into Realities.

“Cody.”

“You’re right.” The words came out astonishingly solid considering how hard he was shaking inside. Damn, he’d been so stupid. He lifted his gaze to hers. “You are my friend. Hell, you’re my best friend, and it was shitty of me to run away like that.”

“Really shitty,” she agreed. The heat pouring off her faded a little.

“I’m sorry.” He paused. Considered. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I know I did. So, I’m sorry for that. For not just going back to what I know is true.”

“That I’m a great listener?” Fern suggested, the hint of pitchforks and torches completely gone from her tone. “I am a good listener, Cody. If you need to spill whatever’s got you tangled in knots, I’m here.”

“Yeah.” He forced the word through clenched teeth. “It’s…”

For the past four weeks, he’d longed to share his worries. Yet even in Ireland with his parents, who, he knew, loved him to the core, he’d been evasive.

Now, bolstered by Fern’s strength, the truth poured out of him.

“Something is physically wrong with me. I don’t know yet what it is, but just the thought of not being able to do everything I want scared the hell out of me. Could be nothing. Could be…” His throat locked up. “It’s stupid to drag you into that uncertainty.”

Her laugh came out half sob, half wicked cackle. She stepped so close the tips of her toes bumped his. “I’m already in it, you ass. Did you think you could run off across an ocean and I’d just— What? Forget you? Stop being your friend?”

“I thought…” He shook his head, jaw tight. His hand twitched where it gripped the dresser. “I thought if it’s bad you shouldn’t have to deal with it.”

“Stop.” She cupped his face with her good hand and her short arm, both pinning him to the spot as if she would hold him up with sheer willpower.

“You don’t get to decide what I can handle.

You don’t get to protect me by ghosting me.

I want you. As a friend. As more than a friend, but shove that first part into your brain hard.

Friends stick . Even if you’re scared. Especially then. ”

He wanted to promise her something easy. It’ll be fine, I’m fine . But he couldn’t lie to her. Not anymore.

So he gave her the only thing he could, the truth in the tremor of his hand, the ache in his chest, the way he leaned into her touch like he’d been starving for it.

All true.

“You wreck me, sweetheart,” he breathed.

Her lips brushed his, soft at first, then urgent. Not I love you , not yet, but I want you. I choose you.

When they broke apart, foreheads pressed together, her whisper made his eyes burn. “No more running, cowboy.”

He let out a shaky laugh and felt the fight drain out of him at last. “Not unless you’re chasing me.”

Her smile was fierce and so damn sure. “Try me.”

He kissed her again, just because he could. Just because for the first time in weeks, they were real—flawed, terrified, but in it together.

No more hiding.

No more trying to go it alone.