Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“I think I got the pressure gauge back up to forty pounds,” she said, her head appearing through the floor opening.
“Good,” I said.
I folded the receipt back into its original shape, creasing the paper along the worn blue lines.
I slid the hardware store receipt back into Cornelius’s jacket pocket, letting the white edge stick out exactly as I had found it.
By ten o’clock the next morning, I was sitting across from Rebecca Marsh in her Cody office. The narrow strip-mall room was quiet, save for the hum of a small electric heater near the door. The smell of old paper and carpet cleaner hung in the cold air, a sharp contrast to the fresh mountain breeze I had left behind at the cabin.
Rebecca had three thick manila folders arranged on her desk. She spent a long moment aligning the files parallel to the edge of the dark wood, her thumb smoothing down the tab of the top folder until the paper sat perfectly square. Every motion of her hands was deliberate, as if she were squaring up a joint on a cabinet frame.
