Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
The red taillights of Cornelius’ SUV disappearing down the dark mountain dirt road.
By seven the next morning, the kitchen had settled into a absolute quiet. The early sun came through the east window, throwing long blocks of pale light across the yellow pine counters. I stood by the stove, waiting for the water in the blue enamel kettle to reach a boil. My fingers felt stiff from the cold air that always managed to pool near the floorboards during the night, but the house itself was solid. The cedar walls kept the draft from moving, holding the stillness in place.
I measured out three level scoops of ground coffee, placing them into the glass carafe. The counter was exactly twenty-four inches deep, finished with a three-quarter inch bullnose edge that I had sanded down myself until the grain was smooth under my palm. There were no dirty dishes left in the sink, and the yellow legal pad was gone from the table, tucked away in the bottom drawer of the oak sideboard. The only sound in the entire three-room cabin was the gradual hiss of the water against the metal.
