Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
The cashier’s check for one hundred eighty-five thousand dollars sat on the dark oak desk, its left corner slightly creased where my thumb had pressed it.
Rebecca Marsh aligned the files so they ran exactly parallel to the edge of the wood. She was forty-five, with a quiet, deliberate way of moving that matched her legal terminology.
“The deed looks clean,” Rebecca said, her voice slow and measured. “The title search shows no liens, no easements, and no outstanding timber rights. You are purchasing the property outright.”
I pulled the blue microfiber cloth from my pocket and used it to clean my lenses, checking for any smudges before putting my glasses back on. The world came into sharp focus, from the grain of the oak desk to the three brass keys on the metal ring.
“I built seventy-two homes in my working years,” I said. “I know how to spot a solid foundation. This one is poured six feet deep.”
“It is yours, Arthur,” she said, sliding the keys toward me. “Take care on the mountain roads.”
At one in the afternoon, I stopped at the general store on the north side of Cody to stock the pantry.
The clerk, an older man with graying temples, stacked my boxes of dry goods onto the counter. I bought dry beans, five-pound bags of flour, canned peaches, and three boxes of saltines.
He looked at my heavy wool coat.
“Going up to the Miller place?” he asked.
“I just closed on it,” I said.
“The wind up there in March is no joke,” he said, tapping a finger on the register. “It will find every loose board on a roof. If your cedar siding isn’t nailed down with three-inch rings, the gale will pull it clean off by midnight.”
“The construction is tight,” I said. “I supervised the framing myself.”
“Keep your matches dry,” he said. “The mountain has a way of testing a man before the grass turns green.”
The twelve-mile drive up the dirt road brought me to the clearing just as the mountain shadows began to lengthen. The green metal roof of the cabin reflected the dull silver of the afternoon sky. The smell of fresh cedar shavings still lingered in the air from the trim work I had finished last month.
