My Horse Whisperer by itsvlada
My Horse Whisperer
Description
I promised my mom I'd be nice to my new stepsister. Smile, get along, don't mess this up. Then I met Zara Walsh. She's an Olympic medalist with ice in her veins and a talent for making me cry. She wants me gone. She told me I'll never be a real rider. She pinned me to a wall by my throat and told me to leave. And all my body wanted was for her to get closer. I'm supposed to be straight. I'm supposed to be chasing the championship. I'm supposed to want my older trainer who promises to make me a star. Instead I want the girl who hates me - and kissed me back when she thought nobody was looking.
Chapter 1
Aug 11, 2026
Zara’s POV
"What the fuck, Dad?"
He didn't flinch. Didn't even look up from his cufflinks. There was a silver Range Rover in the driveway with two strangers climbing out of it, and my father was fixing his cufflinks like he hadn't just blown up my entire life via text message.
Twenty minutes earlier, he'd texted me. Coming home with Sage and her daughter. They'll be staying with us. No call, no explanation. Just a notification.
As always, I don't even deserve proper notice.
Through the window I could see them — a blonde woman in a black dress dabbing her eyes with a tissue, and a girl about my age in ripped jeans and a messy bun.
She wasn't even looking at the house. Her head was already turned toward my stables.
Don't you dare look at my stables like they're yours.
"Language, Zara."
"You got married?" My voice cracked and I hated myself for it. "Without telling me?"
"Sage and I have been seeing each other for a few months. She lost her husband recently — we kept the ceremony small, out of respect for her mourning."
Out of respect for her mourning. But not for your daughter, who found out by text twenty minutes ago.
"Her daughter rides dressage," he went on, like we were discussing the weather. "Maxine. She is eighteen, just your age. Candidate for Master of Sport."
The ground slipped from under my feet. Another rider. In my stable.
Under my father's roof, where every win I'd ever earned hung framed in the hallway and still wasn't enough to hear I'm proud of you without a but stapled to the end.
Just don't tell me that because of her I'll have to try even harder to win my father's favor.
The front door opened. Sage walked in clutching her purse with both hands, looking like someone who'd been told to smile at a funeral.
Then the girl stepped in behind her, took one look at the ceiling, and whistled loud enough to echo off the walls of my foyer.
"This place is insane." She spun in a slow circle. "Mom, are you seeing this? There's an actual chandelier."
A chandelier. She's losing her mind over a chandelier.
I had an Olympic bronze medal upstairs that my father walked past every morning without a glance — but sure, let's all get excited about the light fixture.
"Zara. This is Sage. Your stepmother. And this is Maxine."
Maxine stuck her hand out. Full arm extension, big grin, the whole deal. "Hey! Call me Max. Everyone does."
She pumped the air between us even though I hadn't moved. "Your dad says you ride too, which is so cool, because I literally don't know anyone here and—"
"I know who you are." I crossed my arms because if I didn't, my hands were going to do something I'd regret. "Placed fourth at nationals. Dropped to sixth after freestyle because you lost focus in the final minute."
The grin stayed on her face but something shifted behind her eyes. Good. At least she wasn't completely oblivious.
"Wow. You really did your homework."
"I didn't. You're just easy to research."
Behind me, Sage made a small sound — half gasp, half throat-clear. My father's hand landed on my shoulder, brief and firm, the kind of grip that said I will deal with you later without a word.
"That's enough." His voice was calm but the grip tightened for half a second before he let go. "Zara, show Maxine the property. She needs the stables. The Harrington Classic is eight weeks out and she's behind."
The Harrington Classic. My qualifier. The one I'd been building my entire season around.
And he said it like it was hers now, like he'd already decided she deserved a shot at the thing I'd been killing myself for.
"Happy to." I smiled at Maxine. It didn't come close to reaching my eyes.
She bounced on her heels. "This is going to be great. I can already tell."
You have no idea what you just walked into.
I pushed through the back door toward the stables. She kept up — matching me step for step, which bothered me more than it should have because I was walking fast on purpose.
"How long have you been riding?"
"Since I could walk," I said, and left it at that.
"I started at seven. My dad got me a lesson for my birthday and I cried when he tried to take me home." She laughed — bright and loud and so warm it almost hurt to hear. "So he just kept bringing me back."
I said nothing. She filled the silence anyway — couldn't stand a quiet moment, had to fill it with words and warmth and that golden retriever energy that made me want to scream.
"He passed away last year." Her voice dropped. "Heart attack — he was only forty-six."
Her hand drifted up and touched a necklace tucked under her shirt, quick and small, like she was checking it was still there.
I just nodded and didn't slow down. I'd spent twenty years trying to earn a single warm look from a father who was alive and standing ten feet away. I didn't know what she wanted from me.
I pushed the stable door open. The smell hit us — hay and leather and the soft breath of twelve horses. My territory. The only space on this property that was truly, completely mine.
Maxine stepped inside and went still. That restless energy she carried everywhere just switched off. She reached for the nearest stall and I almost smiled to myself.
Go ahead. Touch Rembrandt. He bites every stable hand who gets near him. This is going to be hilarious.
I was already picturing her yelping and stumbling backward when Rembrandt stretched his neck out and pushed his nose into her palm. Gentle as anything, like he'd been waiting for her all day.
You are a traitor, Rembrandt.
My smile died on my face as she whispered, "Hey there, gorgeous" — her voice completely different now, low and soft and careful. "Look at you."
He nuzzled into her hand like they'd known each other for years. That horse took me three months to earn.
She walked in and got it for nothing. The same tight feeling I got every time my father praised someone else while I was standing right there crawled up my ribs.
"Don't touch the horses without permission."
She turned around, genuinely confused. "Sorry. He just — he came to me."
"They're not yours."
"Zara!" A voice from the tack room — the one person on this property who'd had my back since I was sixteen.
Ashton, my trainer, walked out wiping his hands on a rag. He saw me first — he always did. That was our thing. Before every session, every competition, his eyes found mine first.
Then his gaze slid past me to Maxine and something in his face shifted.
No. Don't you dare.
"You must be the new rider." He extended his hand. "Ashton Howard. I train here."
She took his hand and her whole face went pink. "Max. Hi. I literally just got here."
"Lucky you." He smiled — and it was that smile. The one I'd earned over four years of dawn sessions and flawless scores.
The one that meant you're worth my time.
"I watched your nationals footage. Your piaffe needs work, but your passage has real potential. We should build a plan."
"Seriously?" Her voice jumped an octave. "That would be — yes. Absolutely."
She was looking at him like he'd handed her the world. He was looking at her like he'd found something rare.
I'm right here. I'm standing right here.
He asked about her half-pass. She waved her hands around, knocked a feed bucket, laughed at herself. He laughed with her — that easy sound he made when someone impressed him. I used to be the only one who got that laugh.
I stepped backward and neither of them noticed. I slipped outside and gripped the paddock fence until the wood bit into my palms.
Forty-five minutes — that's all it took. My father's attention, my trainer's interest, my horse's trust, all handed over without her earning a single second of it.
I'd spent my whole life earning things. Every medal, every score, every glance my father threw my way — paid for in hours and sweat and a spine that screamed at me every morning.
And she just walked in smiling, like the world owed her a welcome party.
Enjoy the tour, Maxine. It's the last nice thing you'll get from me.
My Horse Whisperer
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