The Rival
When I first saw the people in white coats and the stretcher that bore a young woman, frozen in place, a strange satisfaction washed over me. It was quickly replaced by a cold, sinking fear.
Was the woman whod been rushed to the hospital still alive? The thought sent a chill down my spine. I hadnt wanted any of thisnot even for my mothers sake. Broken bones were never part of the plan. I only wanted to teach a lesson, to punish, to drive a wedge between my son and his father.
***
The Whitaker family was known well beyond the borders of our little village in the Cotswolds. They werent just a family; they were a tightknit business unit: Andrew Whitaker, his wife Margaret, and their daughter Emma. Their riding school, Legend, was a pilgrimage site for tourists and horse lovers alike. Andrew, a man of sturdy Yorkshire roots, was the heart of the operation. Margaret, his steadfast partner and the accounts manager, kept the books straight, while Emma grew up in the saddle, knowing every horses temperament as if it were her own pulse. From an early age she helped in the stables and quickly became a professional in dressage. Determined, silent, braveshe was a doer.
The Whitaker enterprise began as a hobby. In the early 1990s Andrew kept a pair of ponies on his parents farm. By the midnineteies he built a spacious stable with a riding arena and a large paddock just outside the nearest village. A short while later he added a modest guest house. He bought five more horses, began taking in private steeds for boarding and care, hired grooms, a farrier, trainers, and opened the livery for hire.
The service proved popular with new countryside homeowners and, soon enough, with tourists venturing into the English countryside. Emma and her mother lived in a flat in Birmingham, but every weekend Emma would drive out to the farm, her love of horses obvious to anyone who saw her. By the time she was in Year 7 she was already helping her father teach beginners.
After school, Emma didnt go to university. She poured herself entirely into the family business. She could name each horses mood, spot a sore leg, decide which animals could be turned out to the fields and which would need a little extra care. The business had its rough patches. In 2010 a fire gutted the outbuildings and claimed several horses. Andrew was devastated, his face turning ashen, while Margaret held herself together, refusing a single tear and insisting everything would be rebuilt. Together they did.
Then Margaret suffered a stroke.
Andrew never left her side; he became her shadow, her will. But three months later a second attack struck. It became clear that a full recovery was impossibleMargaret would never leave the flat again. Something inside Andrew snapped.
He didnt abandon her. He hired carers, sourced expensive medication, but his eyes grew vacant and his touches turned mechanical. Hope faded from his gaze.
Emma saw her fathers formal, detached care for her mother and grew to hate him for his weakness. She believed Margaret would get back on her feetshe wasnt even fifty yetand that the family would return to the closeknit, supportive unit it once had been.
Those dreams crumbled in an instant.
One afternoon Emma caught Andrew in the hayloft with Victoriaa striking, selfassured businesswoman who was a regular client of theirs. My world turned upside down. A wave of fury surged through me, and that very evening I stormed into the house, demanding answers.
I expected Margarets eyes to mirror my own pain. Instead, confined to her wheelchair, she let out a soft sigh.
Darling, calm down. I know, she said.
Know? And you keep quiet? I snapped.
Hes fortyeight, full of vigor, and he needs a woman. And I you understand, now Im a burden to him. Hell still come, he wont abandon us, and the business will survive. Ive forgiven him, for his sake, for ours. And you should forgive too. For me.
But forgiveness was beyond me. My father had raised me with strict expectations about men, and at twenty Id never been seriously interested in anyone.
The notion that another woman was exploiting my fathers vulnerability and my mothers frailty gnawed at me. I kept recalling the way my father had once been caring, attentive, and affectionate with my mother. I concluded it wasnt him at fault; it was Victoria. Shed flaunted herself, and no man could stand firm against that. All my anger redirected onto the interloper.
Vengeance settled in my mind like a stubborn seed.
Yet I was not a brute. I decided to strip Victoria of the very thing she prizedher icy composure and control. I knew she, despite her experience, was terrified of looking foolish. So I crafted a plan.
I invited her to test a new horse called Storma gentle, placid animal. In the days leading up to the trial, I trained Storm in a way only I could see, using subtle cues invisible to the untrained eye.
On the day of the demonstration, the arena packed with onlookers, I staged a show. I displayed Storms steadiness, then, as Victoria mounted, the horse suddenly turned mischievousthough not aggressive. He didnt buck; he simply began to act like a clown, rearing at the most absurd moments, ignoring commands, making ridiculous jumps.
Victoria, desperate to preserve her reputation, looked less like a skilled rider and more like a clumsy fool unable to manage a stubborn animal. The crowd burst into laughter. She grew increasingly nervous, angry, and ultimately made a spectacular, humiliating fall.
Andrew was away that day, visiting Margaret, and I had taken care of that myself.
Andrew returned to the stables an hour after the incident and hurried off to the hospital where Victoria had been taken. Before leaving he glared at me, saying hed deal with me later.
When the adrenaline faded, I stood alone in the empty arena, feeling a hollow emptiness rather than triumph. I never intended to cause lasting harm; it was just an unfortunate turn of events.
Andrew came back to the yard early the next morning. He waited until I was about to eat breakfast. His face was ashen.
The saddle, he murmured. I inspected it. Its been tampered with. And Storms behavioureveryones told me. Did I ever teach you this?
I tried to explain.
I did it for you! For Mum! To make her leave!
Silence! for the first time in my life my father shouted. You didnt do it for us. You thought you could play judge? I dont know if Ill ever be able to look at you without horror.
Worse than his words was my mothers silence.
I approached her, hoping for at least an ounce of understanding if not approval. She stared at me with cold, distant eyes.
I asked you to understand, to forgive as I can. And you you have brought evil into our home. Deliberate, calculated evil. You thought you were saving the family? You buried it. Leave.
Soon it became clear that Victoria would be fine. Doctors suspected a spinal injury; she couldnt move for two days, but it turned out to be a shock, a few bruises and a mild concussion. She never sued; every client signs a standard waiver acknowledging the risks of riding and waiving any claims against the yard. The only people who saw any malice in what happened were Andrew and Margaret, once they learned which horse had been used.
***
Legend still operates, but the spirit has long since fled.
Andrew lives in a tiny cottage at the edge of the yard, speaking to me only in grunts. Margaret has retreated completely into herself; her silence is a wall I cannot scale.
I reside alone in a hollow house, staring at faded family photographs, convinced I never deserved such treatment from my own parents. I set out to punish a stranger, hoping to restore things to the way they were. But the past never returns. Vengeance, like acid, eats away at everything around it, drop by drop. Now all I have left is regret, a bitter awareness that in my fury I mistook cruelty for justice.
