Until May Third

Chapter One: A New Guest in Carter County Jail

Hello Readers!  

Let me know what you think of this story.  This is just the first chapter, but if you like it, please tell me in the comments!  I'd love to hear some thoughts on what your take on Until May Third is like.  

-Lottie

Without further ado, Until May Third:

"Goodbye, Mr. Dawson!"  I called back to the cheery old baker, who stood in his cheery old bakery, waving to me as I skipped away with a basket of warm treats.

Bud-um, Bud-um, went my shoes as they hit the dirt road, that had only been printed with feet so many times.  Many of those times, the prints came from me.  My leather buckle-up slippers I'd spent so much of my earnings on.  I only wore them when I was going to school, church, or town for a while to run errands. Even when I did wear them,  I made sure they were polished until I could see my own reflection in them afterwards.

The winds were strong today, and I felt my bonnet ruffle and my hair cool as the breeze played through the sandy blonde strands.  I giggled when it pushed back the basket, trying to pull the baked goods away.  Not today, I thought.  Papa's been working hard and deserves a reward.

By now, I could see the old jail sitting in it's little nook in the valley, right beside Carter River.  It looked strange as I gazed down from my perch on this hill.  A jail, where people who've done bad things go, sitting in a quiet field, surrounded by knee-height waving yellow grasses and a lively river.

I continued my way down the dirt path, no longer skipping.  Papa always told me that when I'm around the jail, I must draw the least amount of attention to myself.  Never to flounce or speak loudly, or talk to or make eye contact with any of the prisoners.  I always followed these rules, as I knew my father was looking out for my safety.  Even if he didn't mind me making a hoot out of myself, I wouldn't.  The things some of those people in the cells did when they'd been free scared me, and I always tried to keep away.

Of course, there were always the occasional times when I couldn't keep away.  When Papa really needed help with some of the chores in the jail, like washing the floors or dusting the empty cells, he had no one else to turn to, and so I was left to take care of it.  I already maintained our small home (three rooms on the second floor of the jail), went to school, worked my part-time job, and did all the errands.  But I never complained.  Not ever.  If I had to work to death to keep my father alive, I'd do it.  And I know he never took me for granted.  Whenever I finish my chores, or give him some treats from the bakery, he looks me in the eyes with an expression so sad it nearly brings me to tears, and says, "You're a good girl, Cinna.  I love you."

Which reminds me of the now.  I had just made it to the side door of the jail when I heard voices.

"Think he's innocent like he says, Sheriff?"  I recognized those words as Deputy Hitchenson's.

"I reckon he's a troublemaker.  He got caught by surprise and doesn't know what to make of it.  I feel a little sorry for him, but the boy's gotta learn his lesson."  That husky voice was my father's.  Sheriff Banbury.

There were footsteps, and then Papa was coming out of the room through the open side door where I'd been listening to the conversation.

"Oh, hello Cinna," he said, nearly bumping into me with his big round belly.  His eyes smiled as he continued, "y'know I hate to ask this, but could ya tidy up the cell room?  It's been going on for two months now without a proper cleaning, and so there's a coat of dust 'bout an inch thick on everything.  I'd do it myself, but I've just been called out to Powder River.  Theft is getting mighty popular this year."