Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
The heat from the woodstove had died down, and the air inside the small living room carried the chill of the early spring evening. I stood by the window, looking at the empty kitchen table where the yellow legal pad still sat.
Bula had left her wool scarf on the small peg by the door, a scrap of red fabric against the dark cedar.
I sat down in the wooden rocking chair, my joints aching from the tension of the last eight weeks. The room felt larger now, the three hundred square feet of the main living space suddenly empty of the loud arguments and breathless excuses.
I had saved the cabin, but the holidays we were supposed to share in these mountains were gone.
A soft hum came from the driveway as the headlights of the grey SUV flickered against the pine logs of the living room wall.
I did not get up to say goodbye again.
Through the glass of the front window, I watched the vehicle slowly back out of the clearing, its tires crunching on the gravel.
