Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
She closed the folder with a firm slap, the heavy paper settling into place. She placed the notarized documents back into her leather briefcase and zipped it shut with a single, long pull.
I picked up my yellow legal pad and walked out onto the front porch at eleven, where the morning sun was just starting to melt the frost on the heavy cedar railings.
Bula was sitting on the top step, her coat pulled tight around her shoulders, twirling her silver wedding band round and round her finger.
“Where is Cornelius?” I asked, sitting down on the bench behind her.
“He went to the truck to check his phone,” Bula said, her voice rapid and breathless. “He says his office in Denver is calling him every twenty minutes, Dad. He is so tense.”
I laid the yellow legal pad on my knee, showing her the timeline I had written out in block letters.
“I need you to look at this, Bula,” I said.
