Naomi surveyed the frost-burnt Boston fern that hung from a hook screwed into the porch roof. Her neglect had caused its bushy leaves to shrivel and turn black. Now that the plant was dead, guilt poked at Naomi's conscience.

I hate to just toss it in the dumpster.

She loved to hike the deer trails behind the farmhouse, an old oak tree her favorite resting place during such walks. Its largest limb swooped to the ground and leveled out making a perfect bench-like seat. Naomi had drunk many a thermos of coffee while sitting there. Burying the fern under that big limb would give her an excuse to enjoy another trek and she wouldn't feel so badly about her inept green thumb.

Hurriedly, she dressed and packed a lunch of one peanut butter sandwich and six Oreo cookies. As an afterthought, she dropped two more cookies into the bag. Since turning forty, she'd noticed an extra pound on her frame every couple of months, but she didn't care any more. What man would fall in love with her now? She had the farm, raised and sold horses, and enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle.

Later, strolling slowly through the woods, she noted how everything wore a bright mantle of frost. The early autumn mornings brought a chill, but by lunchtime, the flamboyant whiteness would be gone.

Using a camping spade, Naomi dug a deep hole under the low, flat limb. Her breath puffed white as she exerted herself at her task. She tossed the spade aside and placed the fern in the gaping soil mouth awaiting its offering.

A sound like an animal shaking a tree branch or quietly pushing through undergrowth jerked her thoughts back to reality. Naomi glanced around her surroundings. Quiet reigned save for a chipmunk voicing its irritation at her presence. She packed the dirt down and stood, brushing herself off.

Again, the noise drifted to her.

Naomi paused, expecting to see a deer step out to drink from the stream just a few feet away. The third time she heard the sound, it brought with it a shower of frost from the tree branches above her.

I bet it's a darn squirrel.

Her gaze traveled up the oak's trunk and into its canopy. There, sitting upon the highest limb, a man stared back at her with pale blue eyes. He shifted and more frost floated down on her.