Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“We will make room,” Cornelius said.
The line went dead with a dry click.
I stood by the counter under the yellow glow of the single kitchen bulb, staring at the unauthorized mail form resting against the breadbox.
The morning sun did not do much to warm the gravel behind Edwin Vance’s workshop in Cody. Edwin, my old construction foreman, had the green metal cowling off a John Deere riding mower, his thick fingers tracing a black rubber fuel line. A wooden toothpick hung from the corner of his mouth, completely still as he worked.
I stood near the edge of his gravel driveway, holding the postal form I had taken from my mailbox.
“Cornelius did this from Denver,” I said, handing the slip of paper to him.
Edwin took the paper, his thumb leaving a small smudge of black grease near the postmark. He did not look up immediately. He tapped the paper against his knee, then squinted at the oil pan under the mower.
