Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
What document had Cornelius actually got me to sign in Denver while Bula poured the coffee?
The clock on the kitchen wall read eight in the evening when the phone finally rang, the sharp bell cutting through the quiet of the cabin.
I picked up the receiver, expecting Bula voice, but the line was clear of static.
“Arthur,” Cornelius said, his tone flat and commanding. “I assume you received the postal confirmation today.”
“I did,” I said. “Why is my mail being sent here, Cornelius? I still have my apartment lease in Denver for another two months.”
“We broke the lease for you,” Cornelius said. “We are packing the last of your boxes into the trailer now.”
“You had no right to touch my lease,” I said, my voice rising.
“Friday morning. I will text you their arrival time,” Cornelius said, cutting me off before I could finish the sentence.
“There is no room here for three people, Cornelius,” I said. “The guest room is not even framed in yet.”
