Enduring Charity Read online

  Copyright © 2018

  Published by DOWN ISLAND PRESS, LLC, 2018

  Beaufort, SC

  Copyright © 2018 by Wayne Stinnett

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without express written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Library of Congress cataloging-in-publication Data

  Stinnett, Wayne

  Enduring Charity/Wayne Stinnett

  p. cm. - (A Charity Styles novel)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9981285-9-7 (Down Island Press)

  ISBN-10: 0-9981285-9-7

  Cover photograph by Aragami

  Graphics by Wicked Good Book Covers

  Edited by Larks & Katydids

  Final Proofreading by Donna Rich

  Interior Design by Ampersand Book Interiors

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Most of the locations herein are also fictional or are used fictitiously. However, I take great pains to depict the location and description of the many well-known islands, locales, beaches, reefs, bars, and restaurants throughout the Florida Keys and the Caribbean, to the best of my ability.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Dedication

  More by Wayne Stinnett

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  More from Wayne Stinnett

  When I first started this series, I had no idea how difficult it would be to write from a woman’s point of view. With the first Charity book, I found her to be a little angular. Over the course of the next two books, Charity softened a little, became more fleshed out. In this book, I wanted Charity to see her past and recognize herself as an emotional person. She also needs to face her future and come to terms with both.

  My wife, Greta, is a constant source of ideas and my best sounding board—particularly when writing these Charity books. Not that I seek out her advice on how women think or feel. I believe we’re basically the same in that respect. We all feel the same emotions at varying levels; different emotions are more pronounced in some people than in others. But just observing and following my wife’s decision-making process, whether big decisions or small, has provided a lot of fodder for how Charity is evolving.

  Speaking of evolution, my beta reading group has become a huge help in picking apart all the little details of my books. They help fine-tune the story so the reader has a much more pleasant experience.

  Many thanks to Alan Fader, Dana Vihlen, Marc Lowe, Katy McKnight, Drew Mutch, Tom Crisp, Mike Ramsey, Debbie Kocol, Dave Parsons, Charles Hofbauer, Karl Schulte, Ron Ramey, Dr. John Trainer, and Glen Hibbert. And a special thanks to Captain Dan Horn of Pyrate Radio. The recommendations these folks offer are always insightful and on point. Thank you for all your help.

  For my readers who might be concerned that my role at NINC could interfere with my writing, don’t worry. I plan to continue releasing something new, in either the Jesse or Charity series, every four to six months, just as I always have. Enduring Charity will be released in the spring, and Rising Force in the fall, with four more releases scheduled for 2019.

  Dedicated to the memory of Anna Louise Cooper Stinnett, known simply as Mom by myself and my three siblings. Mom was the rock that held the Stinnett clan together. At 4’-11” tall, she was a giant of endurance and fortitude, who allowed three rambunctious sons to explore the hillsides of St. Albans, West Virginia and the many waterways around Eau Gallie, Florida. She was a woman who could make pinto beans and cornbread seem a gourmet meal. Indeed, I was a young man before I realized our special meal was the staple of poor people all through Appalachia. Thanks for making me tough, Mom.

  “Writing is sweat and drudgery most of the time. And you have to love it in order to endure the solitude and the discipline.”

  - Peter Benchley

  If you’d like to receive my twice a month newsletter for specials, book recommendations, and updates on coming books, please sign up on my website: www.waynestinnett.com

  The Charity Styles Caribbean Thriller Series

  Merciless Charity

  Ruthless Charity

  Reckless Charity

  Enduring Charity

  Vigilant Charity

  The Jesse McDermitt Caribbean Adventure Series

  Fallen Out

  Fallen Palm

  Fallen Hunter

  Fallen Pride

  Fallen Mangrove

  Fallen King

  Fallen Honor

  Fallen Tide

  Fallen Angel

  Fallen Hero

  Rising Storm

  Rising Fury

  Rising Force

  Rising Charity

  Rising Water

  Rising Spirit

  Rising Thunder

  Rising Warrior

  Rising Moon

  Rising Tides

  Steady As She Goes

  Jerry Snyder Series Caribbean Mystery Series

  Wayward Sons

  The Gaspar’s Revenge Ship’s Store is now open. There you can purchase all kinds of swag related to my books.

  WWW.GASPARS-REVENGE.COM

  A light wind gently rocked the old boat. It was a warm easterly breeze carrying the aroma of the sea, mixed with the faint echoes of exotic scents from distant lands. It was this same wind that carried the first Europeans across the ocean. Between the twenty-third and twenty-fifth latitudes, the wind came straight out of the east this time of year in the western Atlantic, unfaltering for half the reach of the ocean. Approaching the coast of Europe and Africa, the winds bent east-northeast. Tracing these trade winds in reverse, there was very little but open ocean to impede their progress, all the way back to the coasts of Morocco, Portugal, Spain, and beyond there, into the very cradle of exploration, the Mediterranean Sea. Air so fresh is seldom found anywhere on shore.

  An occasional soft thunk from the halyard against the wooden mast and the subtle creaking of the seventy-six-year-old wooden boat’s hull were the most prominent sounds. The water was so tranquil that even those were few. Quietly floating a hundred yards from the white sand beach, the boat itself was the only thing around that wasn’t natural; though not seeing a boat in such an idyllic setting might seem more so.

  From the trees along the shoreline, an occasional wading bird would call to its mate. The slight movement the sea and wind imparted on the boat caused the hammock below the boom to casually swing back and forth. To the west the sun hung low, just a few degrees above a clear horizon.

  Charity Styles had sailed Wind Dancer to Hoffman’s Cay to dive the blue hole. Yesterday, she’d anchored on the lee side of
the uninhabited island, part of the Berry Islands of the northern Bahamas. It held the distinction of having one of the few inland blue holes in the island nation, and she found them fascinating.

  Lying in the hammock, watching the sun perform its evening dance of color and light, Charity thought about her life to this point. In ten days, she’d reach her thirtieth birthday. To her, it would be just another day; no cause for jubilation. Her generation barely recognized thirty as a milestone.

  Today, however, was different. Most Americans her age would be out with friends, in rowdy celebration of the coming new year. It was said that whatever one was doing at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve was the activity they would be involved in for most of the coming year. This was why couples kissed at midnight.

  Charity was alone on her boat. She’d been alone before, and it never bothered her. Besides, Victor wasn’t far away and would be joining her soon. They’d been sailing and island-hopping together for nearly four months, exploring the hundreds of tiny islands, shoals, and anchorages from the Virgin Islands up through the Bahamas. For most of that time, the two had anchored in secluded coves with nobody else around, allowing them ample time to explore each other, as well.

  They’d left Hawksbill Cay three days earlier, having spent a week anchored off a small, isolated cove with a white sand beach. They hadn’t even seen another boat during that whole week. Their plan had been to reach Hoffman’s Cay in two days, stopping for the night and to reprovision in Nassau. Then they would spend the last few days of the year diving and exploring the blue hole.

  The first leg of the ninety-mile journey went very well. The wind was steady, the seas fair, and the skies clear. On the second leg, after a day-long layover to replenish their food, water, and fuel in Nassau, Victor hit a floating log just two hours out of port and began taking on water. He didn’t find a hull breach, but water was coming in around the propeller shaft seal.

  Charity had followed him back to the marina, and rather than risk running his engine, she anchored and towed him in with her dinghy. It took a couple of hours before they could get his boat out of the water, but the bilge pumps didn’t have any trouble keeping up with the leak.

  Rather than both being stuck in Nassau, Victor had urged her to sail the forty-five miles to the anchorage; he would join her once he had Salty Dog on the hard and inspected for damage. There were quite a few go-fast boats around the capital and commercial hub of the Bahamas, any one of which he could hire to bring him across in less than an hour. He’d called her earlier in the afternoon to say he’d be another night in Nassau.

  Charity watched the sunset from her hammock, a half-full glass of wine on the cabin top beside her. In truth, she was glad for the temporary solitude. Life is permanently temporary; it’s here for a little while. So one has to take advantage of the quiet moments to reflect.

  She cared deeply for Victor, but the only period she had any alone time was when they were under sail. Last night had been the first night she’d been completely alone for quite a while, and she had enjoyed it.

  Lifting the wine glass to her lips, she thought again about the life she’d left behind. For the better part of two years, Wind Dancer had left a trail of death and destruction in her wake. So far, there had been no pursuers, nobody looking for her in retribution for what she’d done or to silence her from talking about it. She’d contacted one or two trusted friends, and it seemed as if everything she’d been told was true: Her past was indeed gone and buried.

  She placed the glass back on the cabin top as the last of the sun slipped silently below the horizon. There wasn’t a cloud anywhere, so only a small portion of the southwestern sky glowed a rusty red, and that only lasted a few seconds before it too was gone. Twilight didn’t last long on the water.

  The Florida Keys – and what had once been home – lay almost two full days of sailing in the very same direction the sun had gone. She hadn’t had a real home since before college, before her father died. The Army had been home for a while. But she’d never felt as needed and had such a sense of belonging as she did when she worked for the American government in the Keys.

  Drifting off to sleep, Charity lay unmoving, wearing only shorts and a tank top. Anchored far enough from shore that the bugs couldn’t find her and the night air was tempered by the warm, shallow water, she was more than comfortable and slept peacefully.

  Until a strange sound woke her.

  She sprang from the hammock, fully awake and alert, standing on the side deck. Charity could tell by the position of the stars that she’d been asleep for only a couple of hours. The sound of an engine could be heard on the other side of the island, moving slowly toward the south. She followed it in her mind, her ears telling her where the boat was located. It slowly passed the tip of Hoffman’s Cay and turned into the deep cut between it and the two smaller islands to the south, White Cay and Fowl Cay.

  The natural channel was tricky during daylight hours; it made several turns before clearing the islands. Either the person at the helm was nuts or they knew the waters very well.

  Charity was anchored on the west side of Hoffman’s Cay, just north of a point of land jutting out into the shallow water. Beyond the spit of land, she could see the lights of the boat as it cleared the southern tip of Hoffman’s and turned north. The pilot picked his way through the shallows, slowly approaching the point. Finally, Charity heard a large splash. They were anchoring in the next cove to the south of the point.

  The engine shut off, and it was quiet again. Occasionally, she heard someone talking — either a woman, or a man with a high voice. Charity couldn’t make out anything that was said, just the tone of the speech. She wasn’t even sure if it was English.

  Patience was something Charity had in spades. She waited and watched the other boat until it became quiet again. Over the headland, she could see the lights from the boat, a trawler, but she couldn’t make out any detail. The inside lights were soon doused, leaving only their mast light shining.

  Charity looked up at the top of her mast. Wind Dancer’s mast light was on, but nothing more, so she didn’t know if the other boat was aware of her presence or not. She assumed they were, since hers was the preferred anchorage.

  Maybe they just don’t want to crowd, Charity thought, gathering her things. Most cruisers she’d met really valued their privacy and appreciated solitary vistas, still mornings, and quiet evenings.

  She went aft to the cockpit and double-checked that the dinghy’s painter was secure. She opened a small console next to the helm and took out one of her handguns, wrapped in oilcloth. There were other hiding places for items of value all over the boat. Most cruisers were also pirates in some small way, smuggling untaxed alcohol, cash, recreational drugs, and weapons into and out of island nations. Boats had dozens of places where a little crafty carpentry work could hide a lot, and few customs inspectors dug really deep into a boat’s bilge area unless they were certain what they were looking for.

  Charity was no different. Wind Dancer had a dozen stash spots built into her interior woodwork during a complete refit, paid for by the United States government. She had half a dozen firearms, some explosives, military-grade electronic and surveillance equipment, and a considerable sum of cash on board. Even some untaxed alcohol.

  The helm console hiding spot was only used when underway, for quick access. When she was in port, Charity hid the big Colt 1911 in another, more secure spot down in the cabin.

  She stuck the Colt, which had once belonged to her father, into the big cargo pocket of her shorts and sat down on the starboard bench. From there, she could easily watch the other boat and the approach around the spit. Putting her feet up, she got comfortable and watched the sky for a while. A half-moon hung directly overhead and provided plenty of light to see her surroundings. After nearly an hour, not seeing any movement or hearing any sound from the other boat, she finally rose and went to the cabin hatch.

  Below, she closed and secu
red the hatch. Increasingly often, this was something she hadn’t bothered with. She and Victor had almost always been alone in an anchorage. But with another boat so close by, it was prudent to take precautions. She opened the aft portholes on either side of the salon, then rinsed her glass and put it away. The moonlight streaming through the overhead port light was more than enough to see by. Besides, Charity knew every nook and cranny of her old boat, like it was part of her.

  Going forward to the vee berth, she opened the overhead hatch just enough to let the breeze fill the tiny cabin. Placing the Colt on the shelf near her head, she stripped down to just her panties and crawled onto the bunk. In minutes, she was again fast asleep, secure in the knowledge that she’d hear anything that came even remotely close to her boat.

  Victor Pitt watched the sun going down from the cockpit of his boat. Normally, this was something he very much enjoyed. Especially lately. He and Charity had been together for four months, anchored primarily in isolated coves for days on end. She rarely wore anything if they were alone and it was warm enough. The diffuse light of the setting sun on her body always got his blood pumping.

  But tonight, his view of the sunset was sandwiched between an old Chris-Craft Commander that looked like it hadn’t been in the water since the millennium and a hulking warehouse building. The Dog was on the hard, waiting for parts to arrive from Florida. And Victor was alone.

  It was only the second time Salty Dog had been out of the water since he’d bought her eight years earlier. Victor detested having his boat up on blocks on the hard, he hated being this close to so many people, he hated the noise, and he hated being away from Charity. In short, Victor wasn’t really in the mood for the loud New Year festivities.

  Yet the celebration was beginning to crank up all around him, in the many bars and restaurants all around Brown Boat Basin. A band was playing at the Green Parrot, half a mile across Nassau Harbor at Hurricane Hole. It was competing, and winning, against jukeboxes and other bands in nearby bars all along the waterfront.

  The log that Salty Dog had collided with the day before had been partially submerged, so he hadn’t seen it. Another day or two and it would have been so waterlogged that it would have begun to sink, as all things eventually do in the ocean. The hull was fine, but the log had somehow turned and impacted the prop and rudder, knocking the stuffing box loose and allowing water to come in. He hoped the prop-shaft was okay, but they wouldn’t know until they pulled the shaft and tested it. Since the new prop would be at least three days in arriving, the mechanic had opted to wait until it arrived before starting any work.