Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“He is in my house right now,” I said.
“Unless he commits a physical crime on Wyoming soil, my hands are tied,” the deputy said. “You need to work through the civil courts to get an injunction. Or have your bank flag the accounts.”
“An injunction takes weeks,” I said.
“Usually,” he said. “In the meantime, I advise you to change your locks and keep a close eye on your bank accounts.”
I took the paper back from the counter and folded it into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the brass key ring. The metal was cold against my thigh, a reminder of the three keys that were no longer exclusively mine.
“Thank you, deputy,” I said.
“Keep your head down, Arthur,” he said.
By three in the afternoon, the sky had turned the color of wet slate. I drove the truck toward the mountains, the wind buffeting the driver’s side door as I climbed the foothills.
