Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“Bula,” Cornelius said. “Tell him we need this. Tell him what happens on the fifteenth.”
Bula did not look up from her silver ring. She turned her back to him and walked slowly into the cabin, closing the heavy screen door behind her.
The wind off the mountain was cold, rattling the dry branches of the aspens near the edge of the clearing.
Cornelius stood in the driveway for a long minute, his smart watch buzzing twice against his wrist, before his hand slowly opened.
The duplicated brass key slipped from his fingers, hitting the gray gravel with a soft, dull clink.
I did not reach down to pick up the key. Bula sat on the bottom cedar step of the porch, her knees pulled tight against her chest and her chin resting on her denim-clad shins.
She twirled her silver wedding band around and around her finger, the small band clicking softly against her knuckle with every turn. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her breaths came in short, ragged gasps that caught in her throat before she could finish a sentence.
