Coming Home for Christmas by Carla Kelly

over twins. It was a simple matter of organizing arms and legs, which Laura and her small hand managed with considerable proficiency, once Thomas had told her what to do. The twins came out quickly, crying and protesting such an abrupt disturbance of their crowded universe, which made Laura grin at him.
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    Dawn came as they left the fisherman’s hovel, both of them smiling as they heard the babies crying—such a pleasant sound after the terror of the past few days and nights.
    â€œLife just keeps going on,” he said to his wife. He sat with her on the end of the dock, both of them dangling their legs off the pier. “Maybe she will name them Tomás and Laura.”
    Laura giggled and put her arm around him. “You have a high opinion of yourself!” she scolded, but he knew her well enough to know she was teasing.
    â€œI am also an amazing lover,” he joked back. “Probably the best in the Royal Navy.”
    She swatted his arm. “And how often are you on land?”
    â€œYou have me there,” he said, ruffling her hair.
    Thomas looked at the peaceful water. His back was to the mission, the smoke that still rose from smoldering buildings around the mission, the rubble everywhere and the incessant keening of Indians in despair. He could hardly imagine a more unromantic setting, but there was no overlooking the contentment filling him just sitting beside his bride of a few weeks.
    â€œWe can go back today,” he told her. “And look over there—isn’t that the pinnace we came on?”
    Laura shuddered. “Could we not take horses? We would be two days, three at the most.”
    â€œThe pinnace is faster and I have patients in San Diego, too,” he reminded her. “This is the life of a surgeon, Laura.”
    She snorted, but was otherwise silent as he hailed the pescador, who was folding his nets into the boat, perhaps getting ready for a fishing run now that as much order had been restored to San Juan as anyone would see for a while. Life went on and the fish waited.
    Hand in hand, they walked down to the beach. “Would you take us to San Diego?” Thomas asked.
    The fisherman nodded, his face troubled. “Better south than north,” he said.
    â€œIt’s worse there?” Thomas asked.
    â€œThat man over there told us more than one ship foundered off Mission Santa Barbara.”
    â€œIt’s a tragedy,” Thomas agreed. “We can be ready any—”
    The fisherman wasn’t finished. “One of the vessels was a strange sight. Apparently, members of your navy had jury-rigged a coastal vessel.”
    â€œOh, Lord,” Thomas breathed, as the blood drained from his face. “But…Santa Barbara? It can’t be the vessel I know. The Almost Splendid left San Diego weeks ago.”
    The pescador shrugged. “Hard to say. I do know the British men had put into Santa Barbara two weeksago, because they were taking on water.” He sighed. “Everyone drowned in a rogue wave. How sad.”
    His legs wouldn’t hold him. Thomas sank to the sand and bowed his head.

Chapter Eleven
    H e stayed that way a long, long while, hearing a great roaring in his ears and feeling an enormous urge to cry his heart out. These were men he had sailed with, cured of ailments, heard their complaints and shared the evils of war. And now they were dead, fish food off the California coast, far from home.
    He couldn’t cry though, not when people depended on him. He tried to rise, but found he could not, until Laura helped him. Unable to speak, he nodded his thanks, then glanced at her.
    What he saw in her eyes took away his breath. He had never seen such devastation on another human’s face. Jolted from his own sorrow, he grabbed her shoulders. “Laura! What is the matter?”
    She sobbed and threw her arms around him, trying to grab him everywhere, as if he were smoke and would disappear if she did not