Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“And now you are being a selfish old man when your daughter needs you,” he said.
I set the ladle down against the side of the pot, the metal clicking against the enamel.
I did not look at him, and I did not look at Bula.
I turned toward the door that led out to the dark porch.
Cornelius slammed his fist onto the wooden table, making the empty bowls rattle against each other.
I kept walking.
The fluorescent bulb in Rebecca Marsh’s office had a slight flicker, about sixty cycles a second, casting a thin gray shadow across her desk. Through the thin drywall, I could hear the faint, high-pitched whine of a drill from the dentist’s office next door in the strip mall.
She aligned three manila folders parallel to the edge of the oak veneer, her fingers moving with the precise habit of a draftsperson.
“The county records show the deed remains solely in your name, Arthur,” Rebecca said, her voice slow and measured. “Your title is currently clear.”
