Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“I wanted to tell you, Dad,” she said, her voice thin and breathless. “I wanted to tell you about the letters from his firm, but he said he would handle it, that it was just a temporary oversight in the corporate ledger.”
I leaned against the heavy timber railing of the porch, looking at the way the wood had started to gray under the Wyoming sun. The post was an eight-by-eight solid cedar timber, anchored to the concrete footer with three-quarter-inch steel bolts, built to withstand eighty miles per hour of mountain wind.
“The firm in Denver is already preparing the paperwork for the district attorney,” I said.
Bula let out a small, shuddering sob, burying her face in her hands. “We have seventy-two thousand dollars in debt, and Cornelius said the only way out was to use the equity in this place.”
“He forged my name, Bula,” I said. “He signed a general power of attorney using a signature he copied from my old pension retirement papers.”
