Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“I protected my home,” I said. “The trust is recorded, and the sheriff has the forgery report on file.”
He turned away from me and opened the driver-side door of the SUV.
“Bula is inside getting the last of her bags,” Cornelius said.
“I will wait for her on the porch,” I said.
The wind was picking up from the north, bringing the scent of damp earth and incoming snow.
I drove down to the general store at six to pick up a box of stove matches and some kerosene.
Edwin Vance was leaning against the bed of his old blue truck in the gravel parking lot, chewing on a wooden toothpick. His wool coat was unbuttoned, and he had his hands deep in his pockets.
“Saw the Denver plates heading up the mountain earlier,” Edwin said, his gravelly voice low. “Everything settled with the lawyer?”
“The trust is signed and recorded,” I said. “Rebecca finished the filing this morning.”
Edwin nodded, shifting the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “And the son-in-law?”
