Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“You made it,” I said, walking over to her.
She let me hold her for a brief second, but her body felt rigid, like a piece of cured timber that would not give.
“We drove all night without stopping,” Bula said, her voice thin and dry.
“I have hot coffee inside,” I said, looking back at Cornelius.
He was already hauling two heavy suitcases toward the bottom step of the porch.
“We need to get the small bedroom set up first,” Cornelius said, his voice flat.
He did not ask where the room was located.
I watched him carry the bags past me, his leather heels clicking on the dry fir steps of the porch.
By two in the afternoon, the brown cardboard boxes were piled three high along the walls of the living room.
The room is fourteen by sixteen feet, and the cardboard towers made the space feel even smaller.
Cornelius sat at my wooden dining table with his laptop open and a white document laid out flat on the wood.
