Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
Edwin stopped to adjust his toothpick, leaning his shoulder against the cedar siding of the cabin. He looked down at the neat rows of wood we had completed, then turned his eyes toward the road.
“They get off okay?” Edwin asked.
“Before midnight,” I said, placing another log on the stack. “Bula called from the gas station in Billings to say they were through the pass.”
Edwin nodded once, his eyes remaining on the dirt road for a moment before he looked back at the woodpile. “He didn’t try to take anything from the shed?”
“No,” I said. “He left the keys on the gravel. I put them back on the brass ring.”
“Good,” Edwin said. He picked up another log, his movements steady and deliberate. “The law is a funny thing, Arthur, but a locked door is simpler.”
“Rebecca Marsh said the deed is recorded,” I said, wiping a flake of bark from my glove. “The trust holds it now. It is out of his reach for good.”
