Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the brass key ring. The three keys clicked together with a small, metallic sound that seemed to carry in the quiet air. I held them in my open palm, looking at the way the afternoon light glinted off the notched brass. One key was for the deadbolt on the heavy front door, one was for the padlocked padlock on the tool shed, and the third was for the gate at the bottom of the driveway. They were the same keys I had held in Rebecca Marsh’s office two months ago, but they felt different now. They did not represent a struggle anymore; they represented a home.
I put the keys back in my pocket and leaned my head against the high back of the rocker. The clearing was completely still. The two black motion-activated trail cameras were still mounted on the trunks of the pines near the boundary line, their small red lights dark but ready. They were there to watch the mountain, not to protect me from my own family anymore. The wolves had moved back up into the high country with the melting snow, leaving only the quiet woods behind.
