Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
By eight o’clock the next morning, the smell of sizzling bacon filled my kitchen, a sharp contrast to the cold drafts coming off the floorboards.
Cornelius stood by my four-burner stove, holding a metal spatula with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He had already brewed a fresh pot of coffee, using my white ceramic mugs that usually sat behind the pantry door.
“I figured you could use a break from cooking, Arthur,” Cornelius said, not looking up as he flipped a strip of meat.
I sat at the pine table, my hands flat on the clean wood, watching him handle my cast-iron skillet like he owned it.
The skillet had been my mother’s, a ten-inch pre-seasoned pan that required a light coat of oil after every wash to keep the rust off.
He scraped the metal spatula against the bottom, a harsh, scraping sound that made me want to take the handle from his hand.
He turned the burner dial down, then adjusted the collar of his shirt and looked at his smartwatch.
