Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“I gave him a chance when I let him stay in the guest room,” I said.
“But we need more than just a temporary room, and you know that,” she said, looking away toward the dirt road.
By two in the afternoon, I had driven into town to get a box of galvanized nails, stopping at the general store parking lot.
The gravel was wet from the melting snow, and a few small patches of ice still clung to the shadows of the wooden storefronts.
Edwin Vance was standing by the tailgate of his old flatbed, a wooden toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth.
He had a box of spark plugs in his hand, his fingernails permanently stained with grease from thirty years of working the line.
“You look like you’re carrying a heavy load, Arthur,” Edwin said, his gravelly voice low and slow.
“Cornelius was measuring my foundation this morning,” I said, leaning against the side of his truck.
