Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
The pieces of the puzzle began to line up on the table in front of me, cold and heavy. Cornelius had no job, no house, and his hand was already in my bank account.
“How much does he owe them, Bula?” I asked.
“He said fifty or sixty thousand,” she whispered. “He said the cabin could clear it if we just had our names on the deed.”
I looked down at the yellow legal pad.
I took the black pen and wrote the date of his job loss at the top of the page.
The tires of the heavy black SUV crunched onto the limestone gravel of my driveway at exactly ten in the morning.
I stood by the woodpile with my work gloves still on, watching the dust settle against the bottom logs of the porch.
The vehicle was loaded to the roofline with cardboard boxes and taped plastic storage bins.
Bula sat in the passenger seat, her forehead pressed against the cold glass of the window.
