Excerpt from Hidden Treasures      The man stood near the fallen fence, staring at Erica’s half-planted garden. He was a silhouette in the faded gray twilight, tall and long-limbed.      Then he crossed the fence onto her land. What were the rules about trespassing in Rockwell? Either she was supposed to be neighborly or she was supposed to haul out a shotgun and aim it at him. She didn’t own a shotgun, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to be neighborly to a man who stood a good six feet tall and had to outweigh her by at least fifty pounds.      She flicked on the porch light, and the jaundiced glow from the yellow bulb spilled across his features. He had a wide brow, a sharp nose and, as best she could see in the rapidly dying evening, pale, intense eyes. His face was framed by shaggy hair that could either be dark blond or light brown.      He approached her back porch, and more light bathed his face. He looked familiar, but she wasn’t sure where she’d seen him before. At a school function? On a "Most Wanted" poster in the post office? She clutched her knife more tightly and asked, "Can I help you?"      "I’d consider it a big help if you’d put down your knife," he said. Where had she seen him? Maybe he was a movie star. He was certainly that handsome. Then again, she’d been living long enough in Rockwell that any new male face would dazzle her. One thing Rockwell didn’t have in abundance was gorgeous men.      "I’m Jed Willetz," he said, extending his right hand. He still kept his distance—her knife must have spooked him—so if she wanted to shake his hand, she was going to have to descend from the porch.      She could bring the knife with her, just in case. But he was a Willetz—and then she remembered where she’d seen him before: at John Willetz’s memorial service back in January. His hair had been a lot neater then, and he hadn’t had a day-old growth of hair smudging his jaw and upper lip, but yes, he was the fellow Fern had pointed out to her after nudging an elbow into her ribs with enough force to leave a bruise. "That’s the grandson," Fern had whispered. "John Edward Willetz III. He was two years behind me in school. Every girl at Rockwell Regional would have dropped her panties for him when he was there."      "Including you?" Erica had asked.      "If he’d asked? You bet," Fern had said fervently. "I probably would even today. Look at him."      Erica had looked. She wasn’t sure she’d drop her panties for him, but admiring his rough-hewn face and honey-blond hair had been the highlight of John Willetz’s funeral.      Jed Willetz remained where he was, a few paces back from the foot of the porch stairs, with his hand still outstretched. She shifted her knife to her left hand, marched down the steps and shook his hand. His palm was as smooth and hard as finely sanded pine. "Erica Leitner," she introduced herself.      "You bought this house from my grandfather."       "I’m so sorry for your loss."      He made a face, apparently not in the mood for platitudes. Only she hadn’t meant it as a platitude. She was sorry. "What can I do for you?" she asked.      "Put down the damned knife."

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