The Secret Gift by Jaclyn Reding Read Free Book Online Page B

often changed their names, too, as a pledge of allegiance to the chief, so to speak, which is the reason some of the smaller clans vanished. The people themselves did not ‘vanish,’ they just changed their affiliation.”
    “ ’Tis why at clan gatherings you’ll find thousands of MacDonalds or Fergussons or Campbells,” added Aggie. “Strength in numbers, you know.”
    Libby found herself very grateful that her mother hadn’t come from a city the size of Inverness or Edinburgh. It would have taken her probably twenty years to get through all the Mackays there. Here, in this small village, the task would, she hoped, be much easier. “Well, then, it would seem I’d better start at A. Mackay and work my way through to Z.”
    Little more than an hour later, fed, bathed, changed, and suitably dressed for visiting, Libby made her way into the village.
    From her Web research, Libby had learned that the village of Wrath had a population of approximately three hundred and fifty, twenty-seven of whom composed the one school’s student body. The village’s biggest claim to fame was its location; it was the most northwesterly village on the Scottish mainland, was the site of a nineteenth-century Stevenson lighthouse, and a far more ancient privately owned castle.
    The rest of the population was fairly evenly divided in age, with slightly more than a third in the “over-fifties.” It was that age group in which Libby had the most interest, for any cousins or acquaintances of her mother would more than likely be found there. And even if there weren’t any direct family, it would be the older generation who would best be able to tell her if they recognized the man in the photograph.
    Libby drove slowly along the village high street, taking in the small whitewashed cottages that lined the narrow roadway on either side. There was the post office she’d passed the night before, a petrol station and garage, a grocer and general store, a hardware store, the pub, and a smattering of other gift and craft shops. There was also a “chip shop” for takeaway meals and a quaint little café.
    It was Saturday, and blessedly the weather was mild, the sun bright against a blue sky, with only the slightest chill in the air. The sweater and turtleneck she wore were more than adequate to keep her warm. She pulled the car into the small parking lot of the post office, which was attached to the grocer and general store. She had to smile at the sign that hung above the front window. It said simply THE STORE , quite obviously needing no further distinction. What better place, she decided, to begin acquainting herself with the local residents?
    A small bell tinked above her head when she pushed open the door. Behind the counter, a woman of perhaps sixty looked up, peered at her with that sort of curious look reserved for strangers, then offered a soft smile.
    Libby returned the smile and closed the door behind her. A rack of tourists’ pamphlets lined the wall, and Libby made at browsing them while the woman behind the counter accepted payment from her other customer, thanked her, and wished her well. When she’d gone, the proprietress looked back to Libby, who had turned her attention to a shelf of homemade preserves.
    “Good day to you t’day, miss. It is a fine one, aye?”
    Her voice was melodious and immediately reminded Libby of her mother.
    She nodded. “Yes, it is.”
    “A fair sight better than that spitting bit o’ rain we had yes’treen.” She nodded in agreement with her own comment, looking Libby’s way more closely. “Anything in particular you’re after looking for? Postage stamps, perhaps? Postcards? We’ve a rack of them here by the counter.”
    Libby took this as an opportunity to engage the woman in closer conversation. She approached the postcards and started looking through them, noting images of standing stones and castles and brilliant sunsets over glittering lochs. She chose one, an image of a herd of sheep