Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
The fuel needle sat just above the red line, pointing toward empty. I had seventy-eight dollars in my wallet, and my secondary retirement account was still holding my remaining savings, but the thought of Cornelius having access to everything made my chest feel tight. That secondary account held twelve thousand dollars, the cash I had set aside for the cabin’s septic system and the final cedar siding.
I looked at the passenger seat where my vintage construction tool set sat in its worn leather box. The brass latches were scratched, but the chisels and hand planes inside were still sharp enough to shave cedar. I had kept those tools clean for forty years, wiping them down with oil after every job, keeping the oak handles smooth.
Now, they felt like the only solid things left in the truck.
If Cornelius had been using that forged power of attorney, he had likely already contacted my bank in Denver. He knew my account numbers from the tax returns Bula had helped me file.
