Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
I drove back up the mountain road with the lock on the seat beside me, the shadow of the mountain growing longer across the gravel.
When I walked into the living room at six that evening, the cabin was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator.
Bula was down in the crawlspace checking the water pump, her flashlight beam reflecting off the floorboards from the trapdoor.
I could hear the dull metallic clank of her wrench hitting the copper pipes as she tried to clear an air pocket in the line.
Cornelius had left his heavy canvas work jacket draped over the back of the pine armchair near the woodstove.
I stood by the chair, my boots silent on the braided rug, looking at the dark green fabric.
The room was growing dark, the only light coming from the small window above the sink.
A small white slip of paper was sticking out of the right-hand pocket, folded into a tight square.
