Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“He called last night, Bula,” I said. “He said you are moving here Friday. Why is he changing my bank address?”
I heard a ragged intake of breath over the line, followed by the dry, metallic sound of Bula twirling her silver wedding band against her fingernail.
“He had to do it, Dad,” she whispered. “He said we had to protect our mail. We had to.”
“Protect it from what?” I asked.
“We lost the house,” Bula said, and then she began to sob, the sound wet and muffled. “The bank took the Denver house three days ago. Cornelius said we would lose everything if we did not come to Wyoming.”
I held the receiver tight against my ear, the plastic cold against my skin.
“Why did you lose the house, Bula?” I asked. “Cornelius has been with that firm for ten years.”
“They let him go,” she sobbed. “Three weeks ago. There is an audit, Dad. Some people from the state came to the office. Cornelius says it is a mistake, but they froze his accounts. He said we have to stay with you until it clears up.”
