Before She’s Amy Fleming, She’s Just Amber on the Farm

The rooster doesn’t wait for alarms. By the time the kettle clicks, Amber Marshall is already halfway to the hen house, boots brushing past dew-wet grass, coffee warming one hand, a feed pail in the other. Before she becomes Amy Fleming on Heartland, she’s just Amber on her Alberta farm—hands busy, animals talking, day unfolding.

Morning, for real

The hens crowd the door as she lifts the latch. Warm eggs into the basket, quick checks of the nesting boxes, a gentle shoo here and there. She grins at the colors. “The Morans lay those rich browns; the Olive Eggers give me the soft green ones.” It’s a tiny joy she never gets tired of.

Across the yard, Butter and Popcorn paddle lazy circles in the pond. Butter—a tireless Khaki Campbell—seems to think laying eggs is a competitive sport. Popcorn, a White Call, mostly patrols the edges like security. Sweet Pea, the Sweet Grass turkey, wanders through the scene with queenly calm. Everyone eats together, and it works because they’ve grown up together, Amber says. “They learn the rhythm.”

The pond gets a clean. It’s wet, it’s messy, and the ducks cannonball back in before she’s coiled the hose. That’s farm math: do a job, watch someone undo it with joy—and somehow it still feels worth it.

Bigger bodies, bigger beats

Past the fence is Ella, an eight-year-old Jersey with the kind of face that makes you talk out loud to cows. Ella’s milk has been yogurt, butter, and a few too many milk-mustache selfies. Nearby, Rowdy—now a purebred Jersey bull—keeps his orbit tight. This season they’ve folded in a Highland calf that needed a family. “They just… accepted him,” Amber says. “Animals can be kinder than we are.”

Standing a little apart is Betty the alpaca, unofficial head of security. If a gate is open or a calf is loose, Betty hums—a soft alarm that sends Amber scanning for the problem. It’s saved more than one runaway round-up.

The barns hold their own kind of comfort. Hay from their fields stacks clean and square, proof of sweaty, late-summer days. Square bales for the horses, round for the cattle—a system that keeps winter steady. In a small, home-built milking corner, the pails are quiet for now. Two calves are nursing Ella, and with Amber back on set, twice-a-day milking is on pause. The rhythm shifts; the rhythm holds.

Boots off, makeup chair on

By mid-morning, farm clothes turn into set wardrobe. Hair, makeup, quick lines, a laugh with the crew—and then the hurry-up-and-wait that every actor knows. Dinner table scenes are their own marathon. “You shoot a master with everyone in,” Amber says, “then singles and close-ups, and you’re pretending the food is hot three hours later.” It’s precise work, the kind that looks easy when it isn’t.

How she lands the day

Back home, the light is softer. Cruise, her six-year-old quarter horse, flicks an ear toward the gate. Screech and Talon, the minis, get their laps in; Nitro, her husband’s horse, gets an easy lope. “Short rides keep the minis honest and keep my head clear,” she says. It’s exercise for all of them, and a reset for her.

Inside, she flips open tomorrow’s pages. A note in the margin. A tiny scribble for a beat that feels true. This is the overlap she likes best: Amber the person feeding into Amy the character, and back again. **“A lot of days,” she admits, “I don’t know where one ends and the other begins—and I like it that way.”

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