Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
Cornelius slammed the rear hatch of the vehicle closed, the sound echoing off the metal roof of the tool shed.
“We are leaving,” he said, his voice flat and empty of the corporate confidence he had carried last week.
He turned around, his face pale under the brim of his Denver golf cap. He looked at my hands, then slowly extended his right hand toward me.
“Let us call it a business disagreement,” Cornelius said.
I kept my hands in my pockets, the brass keys cold against my fingers.
“There is no handshake for this, Cornelius,” I said.
His hand stayed in the air for a second before he let it drop to his side.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the brass key he had dropped in the gravel earlier.
“You left this,” I said, dropping the duplicated key into his open palm.
He looked down at the brass in his hand, his mouth twisting into a tight line.
“You think you won something here,” Cornelius said.
