The ambulance siren finally broke the silence.
It came like a distant wave, growing slowly until it filled the air with that insistent sound of urgency — as if the world was screaming for help along with them. Ty stepped away slightly, his hands still trembling, letting the paramedics approach.
Jack stayed by Marion's side until the last second.
She was still breathing, but now the sound was fragile, intermittent. They carefully placed her on the stretcher, connected machines, quickly bandaged the wound on her head. Spartacus neighed softly, as if he felt someone was being taken from him.
"We're taking her to Calgary," one of the paramedics said. "It's the hospital with the best facilities. Are you coming after?"
Jack nodded. His eyes were teary but steady. The kind of steadiness pain demands, not the one born from control.
Ty helped loosen Spartacus with a calm he didn't feel. The horse was visibly limping, its leg bleeding, yet it remained standing, as if on alert. As if, somehow, it wanted to follow the ambulance.
But Spartacus couldn't go. And Ty… didn't know if he should.
"Go with them," Jack said before getting into the truck. "I'll take care of the horse. You… need to be with her."
Ty hesitated. Looked at the horse. At the dried blood on the ground. At the curve. Then he ran after the ambulance, climbing into the passenger seat.
He didn't say a word the whole way.
At the hospital, the smell was antiseptic and urgency.
Marion was taken straight to emergency. Doctors asked questions, nurses rushed by pushing stretchers, and everything seemed to move too fast — except time. Ty sat on the plastic bench in the hallway, hands clasped between his knees, staring at the floor.
Amy arrived half an hour later.
Her eyes were swollen, and her shirt still had bits of hay — as if she'd come straight from the barn. When she saw Ty, she stopped.
They stared at each other for a few seconds. No words were needed. She ran to him and hugged him.
Tight.
Long.
Painful.
"I was supposed to be there," she whispered into his shoulder.
"No," Ty answered. "You wouldn't have made it."
Amy squeezed her eyes shut as if trying to stop the tears. But they came anyway.
They stayed like that for a long time, both together, feeling that something very big had changed. Something with no name.
Jack arrived later, exhausted, mud up to his boots. Sat beside them but said nothing. Just placed his hat on his lap and stared at the emergency room door, as if willing it open with his mind.
No one asked questions. Neither Ty nor Amy. It was as if, in that moment, words were useless. Everything that needed to be said had already been said on the road, in the crash, in the silence afterward.
Hours later, a doctor appeared.
"She's alive," he began. "But in critical condition. She suffered a traumatic brain injury and multiple rib fractures. We'll keep her sedated for the next few hours. The coming days will be decisive."
Jack nodded silently in thanks. Amy started crying again. Ty closed his eyes and let his body lean against the hospital's cold wall. There was no relief. Only a truce.
—
That night, Ty drove back to the ranch alone.
The sky was clear, ironically clear. No clouds, no drops. Only the smell of wet earth still in the air and the deep exhaustion in his shoulders. Each kilometer felt longer than the last.
When he passed the curve, he slowed down. Not out of fear — but out of respect.
He stopped the car for a moment.
Turned off the engine.
Got out.
Looked around.
The fence was broken. The tire marks still visible in the mud. A piece of the trailer's dented metal still gleamed under the moonlight.
Ty knelt down there. Touched the earth with his hand. Took a handful of mud and closed his fist.
"You'll come back," he said, as if she could hear him there. "You are the strength of all this. We don't work without you."
He stayed silent for a few minutes. Then got back in the car.
Kept driving.
—
Heartland was quiet.
More than usual.
Spartacus was in the stable, already treated by Scott, with his leg bandaged and tired eyes. When Ty entered, the horse looked at him and snorted softly.
Ty leaned his forehead against the wood of the stall.
"I don't know if I did the right thing," he whispered. "I felt it was supposed to be me. But now… I don't know if I saved someone. Or just moved the tragedy somewhere else."
Spartacus nudged him. A silent, calm, almost comforting gesture.
Ty smiled faintly. But it was a sad smile.
"Thanks for not leaving me alone there."
Then he went home.
Climbed slowly the stairs to the bedroom that now seemed too big. Changed clothes slowly. Sat on the edge of the bed. Looked at the ceiling.
The same position as the night before.
But now, something had changed.
The world.
Him.
Everything.
And there, in the silence of the room, in the sleeping ranch, Ty understood that the pain was just beginning. That there was a road ahead — and he'd have to learn to walk it.
Even without knowing where it led.
Even scared.
Even with guilt.
But walking.
Because that's what Marion would have done.
And deep down, he knew… she was still there.
Even motionless in a hospital.
Even unconscious.
Even far away.
Marion was still the soul of Heartland.
And he… was going to have to be her steps until she came back.