Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
I stood at the stove, heating a pot of beef stew I had made the day before.
Cornelius walked into the kitchen and stood by the small counter.
He did not offer to help with the bowls.
“The local bank in Cody has a very slow processing system,” Cornelius said.
“Most things are slower out here,” I said.
“That is because nobody here understands modern finance,” he said.
Bula sat at the small kitchen table, her hands flat on the wood.
“Arthur, your refusal is putting Bula’s future at risk,” Cornelius said.
“My home is not a bargaining chip,” I said, putting three bowls on the counter.
Cornelius let out a short, dry laugh.
“Your home is a pile of logs in the middle of nowhere,” he said.
He stepped closer to the table, his shadow falling across Bula’s face.
“You spent forty years carrying lumber just to end up in a shack,” Cornelius said.
The words hung in the warm air of the kitchen, hard and sharp.
