Page 17 of Fern’s Date with Destiny (Heart Falls Vignette and Novella Collection #4)

H e’d been thinking about this the wrong way, Cody decided. Maybe the trick wasn’t to wait for answers but to pretend he didn’t need them. If he didn’t know what was wrong, he could pretend nothing was. He could carry on, work, ride, be with Fern, and it could all be enough.

But when the specialist’s office called him in the second Thursday in June, even the trees budding along the Glenbow Clinic parking lot couldn’t fool him into hoping. Spring was wasted on him.

The doctor’s office smelled like lemon cleaner and the strong tang of anxiety—his own. He sat across from her desk, hands folded tight in his lap, willing them to stay still.

She didn’t drag it out. Maybe he was grateful for that.

“Cody.” Dr. Jorgenson’s voice was calm, not gentle exactly, but direct in a way he’d come to respect. “We have your results. I want to be clear—we don’t assign a diagnosis lightly. But based on your history, exam, and the imaging we did, you have what we call young-onset Parkinson’s disease.”

The words dropped onto his chest like a stone.

“Young-onset,” he repeated.

“It means you’re under forty when it begins,” she explained. “Which comes with different challenges but also some advantages. People your age typically respond better to medication, and they tend to stay active longer.”

Cody stared at the floor, where the toe of his boot scuffed a pale mark across the tile. “And eventually?”

Her silence was just long enough to feel honest. “It’s progressive. There’s no cure yet. But we can manage symptoms for years, sometimes decades. You’ll have good days and harder ones. It doesn’t define you.”

Didn’t it, though? The tremor in his hand already felt like a billboard announcing his weakness.

He forced a breath and tried to joke. “Bottom line, I’m rusting early.”

Dr. Jorgenson smiled. “That’s one way to put it. Your brain isn’t making dopamine the way it should. We’ll start medication, see how you respond. How you react to the treatment often gives us more clarity than tests alone.”

“My work,” he said hoarsely. “I ride. I ranch. I?—”

“You may need to make adjustments,” she acknowledged. “At some point. But you’re not powerless, Cody. You’re still you. You’ll still be you when you’re on medication and when you need help, when you need to ask for more than you ever have.”

He thought of Fern. The way she looked at him, as if he was her safe place. Her someday.

A memory flashed. Her in his passenger seat, singing along to some country station, her prosthesis resting lightly on her thigh while she tapped out the beat with her other hand. She didn’t hide her difference. Didn’t apologize for it.

Maybe he could learn something from her. But right now, he couldn’t feel anything but the weight pressing on his ribs, making it hard to breathe.

He left the clinic with a pamphlet crumpled in one hand and a prescription in the other. In the truck, he sat with the engine off and let the numbness crawl over him.

Parkinson’s.

Not a death sentence. But a different life.

Could he give Fern what she deserved? A partner who might need care in his forties? Who might someday need help dressing, eating, riding?—

His throat locked up.

That night, he couldn’t face anyone. He drove past Red Boot, past the turnoff to town, kept going west until the foothills swallowed him in silence. He pulled into a gravel turnout, killed the lights, and leaned his head on the steering wheel.

This was what a coward did. Hide.

But he couldn’t bring himself and his news to Fern, not until he figured out how to say the words without shattering.

It was hours before he dug out his phone. He typed the message and stared at it so long the screen dimmed and went dark. When he finally pressed Send, his thumb was trembling.

Cody: I need a couple days to clear my head. Camping out west, no signal. I’ll be back. Please don’t worry.

He hesitated, then typed the last line. The truth, unvarnished.

Cody: I love you.

It was cowardly, maybe, to say it in a text. But he couldn’t choke it out in person yet, and it had to be said.

He set the phone aside and let the night come down around him, quiet and cold.

In the morning, dawn found him still awake. He climbed out of the cab, stretched, and let the wind scour some of the heaviness off his skin. If he was going to be any kind of man, any kind of partner, he couldn’t hide forever.

But for a day or two, he needed to remember who he was without the label. Just Cody. A man who loved horses and early mornings and a woman who deserved everything he was afraid he couldn’t give.

He’d come back. He would look her in the eye and tell her the truth.

But for now, he watched the sun climb over the hills and let himself pretend he was healthy and sound.

Just for a little while longer.

Fern read the text three times, the words blurring as her heart crashed against her ribs.

I need a couple days to clear my head. Camping out west, no signal. I’ll be back. Please don’t worry.

Then, the last line.

I love you.

Her throat closed. She pressed a hand to her mouth and breathed through the tremor building in her chest. That was the first time he’d said it, I love you.

So why did it read like a goodbye?

She swallowed hard, willing her hands to steady enough to type.

Fern: I’m here when you’re ready. I’m here even if you’re not ready.

She hit Send before she could overthink it. Then she dropped the phone onto her bed and braced her forearms on the mattress. For a moment, she just let herself feel it all. The elation of knowing he loved her, the dread that he might think he had to set her free.

No.

She wiped her cheeks and forced herself upright. There was no kindness in letting him hide from the one person who would stand beside him no matter what.

He was hers. She was his. They’d figure out the rest.

She tucked her phone in her pocket and went to work.

The gallery was quiet that day. Fern set up a new display, labeled tags, arranged pottery. Everything she’d normally enjoy. But her brain kept replaying Cody’s message.

I love you.

Which she slowly figured out also meant I’m sorry . And I’m scared.

By late afternoon, she was sorting a crate of hand-carved frames when Chance walked in. He didn’t say anything at first, just set a thermos of coffee on the table beside her.

She unscrewed the lid, inhaling the familiar smell. “Thanks.”

“You look like you’ve been to war,” Chance said gently.

She shrugged, not trusting her voice.

He studied her a moment longer. “Something wrong?”

Fern pressed her lips together. The truth slipped out before she could stop it. “I think Cody got a diagnosis.”

Chance’s jaw tightened. “He’s being an eejit?”

“Maybe.” She managed a small smile. “But he’s my eejit. So, there’s that.”

Chance pulled her into a brotherly hug, his big arms bracketing her shoulders. “He’ll figure it out. He won’t walk away from you.”

She squeezed him back. “Thanks, Chance.”

When he left, she locked the door behind him and rested her forehead against the cool glass.

She knew what might be happening. She wasn’t naive. She’d spent hours reading medical articles and Parkinson’s forums in the dark. She’d learned more than she’d ever wanted to know about dopamine, tremors, progression.

So she thought about it. Really thought about it. What it meant to love someone who might someday need her help to button a shirt or tie a boot. To watch him slow down before his time.

To stand beside him when he couldn’t hide it anymore.

She imagined it all. The frustration, the adjustments, the way people would look at them.

It scared her for a bit, but understanding came quick and clear.

She wasn’t scared because she didn’t want to deal with it, but because she didn’t want him to have to deal with it.

The actual doing of the things? The being with Cody through it all? None of that scared her.

It was startling, the realization. So big it made her knees buckle.

She sat right there on the gallery floor and cried. Not because she was sad, though she was. Or afraid—though she felt that too. But because she knew with unshakable certainty that she loved him.

Not just him of today. The him of tomorrow, too. Every version of Cody was hers.

Just like she was his.

He came to her door on Saturday morning when she was still sitting in her pyjamas staring out the kitchen window. Her heart tried to jump out of her ribs. She pressed a hand to her chest then opened the front door.

He looked tired and worn thin around the edges. But his eyes met hers the way they always had. As if she was the only thing tethering him to earth.

“Hey,” she whispered.

“Hey.” His voice cracked.

She stepped back to let him in. “No one’s home. They’re at the bookstore.”

He nodded. “Can we talk?”

“Yeah.”

He tried to start right then and there, but she didn’t let him. She sat on the couch and patted the spot beside her.

When he sat, his thigh trembled against hers.

He didn’t start with excuses. He didn’t even try to soften it.

“It’s Parkinson’s.”

She nodded once, steady. “Okay.”

“It’s progressive.” His jaw clenched. “There’s no cure. The meds help, but someday…”

She laced her fingers through his. “Someday isn’t today.”

He looked down at their joined hands. “You deserve someone who can promise you stability. Someone who won’t wake up one day needing help out of bed.”

Her chest ached. But she kept her voice calm. “You deserve someone who won’t run when things get hard.”

He blew out a shaky breath. “Maybe I should go in the bachelor auction. Make a clean break. Let you off the hook.”

Her laugh startled both of them. “Go for it if it makes you feel better.” She lifted her chin. “It’s not going to change anything between us in the long run.”

His eyes snapped to hers, searching. “You mean that?”

“I do.” She brushed her thumb over the back of his hand. “I can’t promise it won’t be hard sometimes. But I can promise I won’t leave.”

He looked as if he might break right there. She couldn’t stand it.

“Come here.”

She tugged him forward until he was between her knees. She lifted his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“I choose you,” she whispered. “I’ll keep choosing you.”

When she kissed him, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t pity. It was heat and want and the fierce certainty that she would stand beside him no matter what came next.

His hands fisted on her waist as if he couldn’t bear to let her go.

She pushed him to vertical then guided him up the stairs. Deliberate, intentional. A choice they were both making to be together.

Fern finally closed the door to her bedroom then eased him back onto the mattress, kissing him because she could, because she wanted to.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” she murmured as she unbuttoned his shirt. “You don’t have to be anything but mine.”

“Fern—”

“Shh.” She smiled, wicked and sure. “I’m going to make you forget everything else.”

So she did.

When he finally came apart under her hands, she held him close, kissing the curve of his shoulder.

Someday still scared him. Maybe it always would.

But she wasn’t going anywhere.

She knew, without a doubt, he’d figure that out soon enough.