Page 75

September in the Loire Valley was made of golden air and slow, sighing wind.

The vineyards were bronzed at the edges, their summer greens curling toward the flame.

The sky was wide and washed out, a faded blue smudged with clouds.

And everywhere, the scent of ripe grapes hung thick and rich in the air — earthy, heady, humming.

Samarth had never looked more out of place.

Standing on the sloped stone path of the Valmont Polo équestre, the mountain resort nestled between undulating meadows and dense pine ridges, he not only looked but felt like a man who had forgotten how to be still.

His hands were in the pockets of a well-cut jacket, and the collar of his polo was buttoned, as if he couldn ’ t quite convince himself it was leisure he was meant to be having.

The tremors and weak shivers of dengue had long left him, but he still felt his body sway with the wind.

He hadn’t wanted to come here. Until the very last day, he had sought reasons to cancel, reschedule, postpone. Rajmata had anticipated them all and kept contingencies ready. If he was to put money on it, Hukum had a hand in that.

Three tickets were booked without discussion.

One for him, one for his chef ( because you are still in recovery and must have at least one home-cooked meal a day ) and the third one for Harsh and his shrugs and glares.

He had missed the latest bike restoration that his garage friends had been planning.

“Who will bodyguard me if not you?” Samarth had joked.

Your body is a guard in itself.

“What if I told you that there is some rare vintage motorcycle exhibition…” Samarth hadn’t gotten a chance to complete that sentence. Harsh had been ready to go.

Which brought him to the present and this lonely sloped stone path of the Valmont Polo équestre. Harsh had been at the exhibition all day yesterday and had pestered his way for half a day today too.

I’ll come back by 3 and we will go to your vineyard.

It was 12.30 pm and Samarth had bored himself sightseeing across chateaus and palaces and town markets. The truth was, he hadn ’ t travelled like this in years. Not without purpose. Not without a match to win, a deal to close, an event to attend.

He wasn’t a shopper, he wasn’t big on trying out new cuisines, he wasn’t big on history or architecture unless it was Nawanagar and associated with his ancestors.

He was, however, big on horses. And Hukum had sold this place to him right — a mountain polo club.

Maybe some French ponies would jolt him to the mood of a vacation.

The resort in front of him wasn ’ t what he expected. It was elegant but unpretentious, built with stone and timber, the paddocks framed by wildflower beds and a view of the valley that stole his breath before the altitude did.

He made his way to the stables slowly, taking in the property, the flowers blooming even as the trees were bursting into flames.

His boots crunched on gravel, taking him into that familiar territory where the smells of leather and manure and wood would make him feel at home anywhere in the world.

Children ’ s laughter rang out across the air like temple bells.

Her peered up at the open pen under the sun. It was a kiddie training session.

Tiny riders — between six and twelve, he guessed — trotted past in lines on sturdy ponies, chattering in a symphony of French, English, and the universal squeals of children who loved what they were doing.

He went and rested his forearms on the smooth wood fencing, seeing the backs of little heads, their tiny helmets snug and bobbing.

Why had he never found kiddie polo gear so cute before?

“Hey, HH Sam?” A heavily accented voice called out to him from somewhere in the pen. Samarth turned his gaze to a tall man in a fleece jacket with salt-and-pepper hair. “Gir Zephyrs?”

Samarth nodded, squinting.

“Vincent Delacour,” he came striding towards him. “I played for France for a while. We played one tournament against each other in London.”

“Right,” Samarth remembered. He had sported long hair and a beard back then. His hair was shorter now, the beard gone. Delacour. Number 4.

“Hi, it’s nice to see you again, Delacour. Your club?”

“I wish. My uncle owns the resort and convinced me to come oversee training for these bebes. It’s been a real stress-buster. What about you?”

“Oh, I am on a stress-buster of my own. A vacation.”

His head bounced back in a laugh — “You are in the right place, my friend. Loire is vacation all year round.”

“I can see that,” Samarth nudged his chin at the line of ponies trotting together, kids squealing.

They rode past him again and one of them, a tiny boy, waved his hand at him.

Samarth waved back. The one behind him leaned with his gloved hand out.

Samarth met his hand in time for a clap.

That spurred the others in line and he was standing half leaning across the fence, little gloved hands smacking into his palm.

One hand smacked firm but delicate and he glanced up in time for her to throw both her hands up and do a joyous little jiggle atop her pony, hips swaying, legs firm.

Samarth ’ s hand shot out instinctively to steady her, but she flicked her ponytail and kept riding like it was all part of the choreography — spine straight, one hand going to the reins, the other to her waist.

He blinked — amused, impressed, unable to look away.

She circled the paddock again, and again she smacked his palm and danced. Again he steadied her. And again. Other kids got bored of the high-fives but for her, it became a rhythm, a small private game that delighted him for reasons he didn ’ t entirely understand.

“Let’s grab coffee if you are around after the session. Or are you here to get some riding time in?” Delacour offered.

“Sure, coffee sounds good. I’ll take a pony out for a ride happily if you let me.”

“All yours.”

The girl came trotting again, this time leading the pack with loose strands of her hair flying with the wind she had kicked up.

“Slow,” the instructor at the far end let out a whistle and Samarth saw her relax her heels, obeying but not without a dramatic huff.

A defiant toss of her head and her eyes met his again.

He cocked his eyebrow. As if the reprimand to slow down was washed away by their game, she held out one hand and took the other off her horse.

As had been established, he obliged — clapping her hand and holding her body steady until she had passed him.

She looked over her shoulder at him and he noticed she had perfectly rounded eyes.

She didn ’ t smile like a child. She beamed like a star on fire. Samarth couldn ’ t stop watching her.

Not just for her skill — though she was surprisingly good — but because something about her stirred something deeply forgotten in him. A feeling that wasn ’ t planned, wasn ’ t princely, wasn ’ t responsible. Just warm. Proud. Nostalgic.

The final bell rang. The ponies rounded the pen toward the gate, hooves light against the soft earth. She had managed to get her horse to gallop the last few yards with her arms out again. She rode at the front, and just as her pony slowed, she let go of the reins and flung herself forward.

Samarth ’ s heart leapt to his throat.

But then — arms caught her mid-air. He let out a breath he hadn ’ t known he was holding.

She had thrown herself into her mother ’ s arms.

Samarth cocked his head to find them behind her pony.

And time folded in on itself.

Ava.

His mouth opened on a gasp. He felt like his chest was caving in on itself.

Samarth turned away, trying to settle his breath first. It came in slow, shallow, manic breaths.

He began to stride away. His breath swelled.

He continued to stride, his legs eating up the land that had brought him this close to her. Her and her… daughter?

He was not a coward. He was not a man to run.

He was not a man to escape. Except when it came to her.

She was the one he had wronged in his life and had done it intentionally, brutally, repeatedly.

His boots began to crunch the gravel harder and he realised he was running, his feet galloping like her daughter’s horse…

His body froze.

His feet pressed into the soft earth.

Was she?

Could she…?

But she looked so small…

They had last been together eight years ago…

Protection. Every time.

No.

It couldn’t be.

That could be somebody else’s daughter.

Not even Ava’s.

It could be Kresha’s…

Or a friend’s?

Or…

Samarth took a deep breath. It didn’t work. He closed his eyes and moved towards a flower bed, away from the main path where children and parents were beginning to leave the club. He hid like a coward and sat down on an embankment, catching his breath.

He wetted his lips, closed his eyes, then tried again.

A deep breath. Two deep breaths. Down to his stomach. Then out.

He opened his eyes. He could leave here right now and forget he ever saw her.

Or he could go and meet her before she left.

Find out if… there were so many possibilities, each scarier and more torturous than the other.

If she was married and that was her and her husband’s daughter?

If she was a single mother and that was somebody else’s daughter. Or…

Samarth shot up to his feet and began striding towards the pen. His head cleared of the momentary fog. He reached the fence and found the pen now empty of kids, only ponies. Delacour was nowhere to be found either.

“Salut,” he called out to the instructor. “Où est cette fille qui… essayait de faire galoper son cheval?” [85]

“La Galopine?” He scoffed, amused. “Elle est allée avec sa mère au parking.” [86]

Mother .