Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
I took the other side of the oak chest, the weight of decades of collected iron pulling hard on my shoulders as we carried it toward the tool shed.
“Bula sounded scared last night,” I said, setting my end down on the concrete floor.
Edwin did not answer right away, his hands lingering on the latches of the toolbox before he reached into his shirt pocket for a fresh toothpick.
He walked down to the edge of the road where the silver mailbox sat on its cedar post, his shoulder hunching against the morning chill.
“Arthur,” he called out, holding up a small slip of yellow paper he had pulled from the box. “You expecting official business from Colorado?”
I walked down the gravel path and took the paper from his hand, the paper stiff and cold.
It was a standard change of address confirmation, printed on thin cardstock.
My name was printed in the recipient box, but the forwarding address was listed as this very cabin, effective immediately.
