Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“I will have to go to the bank,” I said. “My secondary savings account is at the branch on Sheridan Avenue.”
“Bring the payment back before four o’clock,” she said. “If I have the check in hand, I can courier the documents to the courthouse before they close their drop-box.”
I stood up, the chair scraping against the thin carpet. “I will be back.”
The gravel in the courthouse parking lot was loose and dry under my boots at one in the afternoon. The county courthouse was a three-story red brick building with tall, narrow windows that looked like they belonged in an old schoolhouse.
The spring wind was beginning to pick up from the west, carrying the scent of dry dust and the cold promise of the upper mountains.
Edwin Vance, my retired construction foreman friend, was leaning against the fender of his old blue pickup, his wooden toothpick resting in the corner of his mouth. He was wearing his stained canvas jacket, the one with the frayed cuffs from years of hauling timber.
