Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
At eleven o’clock, the high mountain sun finally cleared the ridge, throwing bright squares of light across the front porch.
Bula came out through the screen door, wearing a thick wool cardigan and holding a mug of tea with both hands.
She sat in the extra wicker chair, her boots clicking against the rough-sawn cedar decking.
“Thank you for being so patient with him, Dad,” Bula said, her words rushing out in a single breath.
“He has been under so much pressure with the restructuring at his firm, and he really is trying to make things right with you.”
She set her mug down on the wooden railing and began twirling her silver wedding band, spinning it round and round her knuckle.
“He just wants us to be secure, and he knows how much this place means to all of us.”
“I am doing what is necessary to keep the place secure,” I said, leaning back against the log siding.
