Texas Moon. Joan Elliott Pickart

loved and loving in return, of having a child that was a miraculous result of that love. She was, after all, a normal, healthy twenty-five-year-old woman.

      But the fleeting thoughts were just that... fleeting. She valued her hard-won independence far too much to relinquish it for any reason. To enter into a relationship with a man would require her to give away a part of her being, and to be accountable to someone other than herself.

      No.

      Never again.

      “Stop it,” she scolded herself. “You’ll make the bowl of cherries gloomy by thinking about that stuff.”

      Blanking her mind beyond counting, she began to hum a peppy tune.

      

      Tux stood across the street, frowning as he stared at the store with the sign hung on the top front that read Buttons and Beads.

      It was a typical June morning in Houston, hot and humid, but Tux was oblivious to the trickle of sweat running down his back beneath his cotton shirt.

      It had been ridiculously easy to find the store with the sign he’d seen so clearly in the images in his mind. He’d simply opened the Houston telephone book to the yellow pages, and there it was.

      He folded his arms over his chest and leaned one shoulder against the chipped bricks of the front of the deserted building behind him, sweeping his gaze along the street.

      It was a mishmash of structures. Some, like the one he’d propped himself on, were empty, the whitewashed windows and crumbling brick walls covered in spray-painted graffiti. Others had professionally produced signs like the one announcing Buttons and Beads, sparkling clean windows and walls, and nicely painted front doors.

      He could see a variety of businesses—a bakery, a used clothes store called The Second Time Around, a pawnshop, a small grocery store, and some others he couldn’t quite decipher from where he stood.

      The height of the buildings, combined with the curtains in the upstairs windows of the occupied ones, indicated that the owners, or possibly other renters, lived above the stores.

      There was pride of ownership there, as well as evidence of broken dreams and a failure to succeed. But the effort of sprucing up that the tenants or owners had made couldn’t erase the section of the city they were in.

      Dangerous.

      “Damn,” he muttered.

      He did not want to cross that street and go into Buttons and Beads. There was a knot in his gut the size of a bowling ball caused by the dread of what he might find.

      Tux shook his head in self-disgust.

      Some former government agent now a private investigator he was. He was shaking in his shorts over what he might discover beyond the door of that shop. The woman he’d seen in the visions, that beautiful, gypsylike woman, had been in danger, had been pleading for help as she cried tears of fear.

      His psychic powers didn’t see into the future, never had. He could glimpse only what was taking place at the actual moment, or had very recently occurred.

      Why the foggy and confusing images of what might have taken place in that store had reached him without him bidding them to come, he didn’t know. Hopefully it was a fluke that would never happen again.

      Maybe... Yeah, that was a comforting thought. Maybe the scenario he’d witnessed had occurred years before, and had accidentally landed in his brain.

      . Granted, the card on the door of Buttons and Beads said Open, but it could very well be that he’d walk in there and find a little old man running the place.

      The old guy would relate a sad tale of a robbery years before that had caused the young woman, who then owned the shop, to be slightly...very slightly....harmed. She’d hightailed it out of there after recovering from minor injuries suffered during the assault, and was now happily married with five kids.

      Tux blew out a puff of air from a pent-up breath, then told himself to cross that street.

      Now.

      Mumbling several earthy expletives, he pushed himself away from the wall and started slowly forward.

      

      The brass bell above the door tinkled, alerting Nancy to the fact that someone had entered the store. She continued to count, cocking her head to listen for a greeting from a friend in the neighborhood. They all knew to call out a hello of some sort, then wait until she had finished counting the beads into a pile of twenty.

      Realizing that a real customer was out front due to the absence of a familiar holler, she dropped the frosting spatula and got quickly to her feet to hurry from the rear area.

      As she came through the doorway, she was smiling pleasantly.

      

      Tux’s shoulders slumped in defeat when he saw the woman who had emerged from the back of the shop.

      It was her, he thought dismally, the woman from the visions. There she was, with her wild tumble of shiny black curls, big dark eyes and lovely features.

      She was wearing a white peasant blouse that accentuated her slender throat, and a multicolored skirt. There was a gypsylike aura to her, just as he’d seen in the haunting images.

      She was absolutely beautiful.

      And he wished to the heavens that she wasn’t standing there in front of him.

      Also taunting him were the bins of beads separated by color, representing the columns he’d seen in the visions.

      Tux frowned and shook his head.

      “Oh...hell,” he said, glaring at the woman.

      Nancy blinked in surprise at the man’s unconventional greeting.

      Not, she admitted, that she had said anything cheerful or welcoming. She’d been momentarily struck dumb by the unexpected presence of one of the most gorgeous men she’d ever seen.

      He was about six feet tall, had need-of-a-trim blond hair that was sun-streaked to nearly white in places, a marvelous tan, and incredible blue eyes. A pale blue dress shirt covered broad shoulders and chest, and a flat belly. His jeans were faded, the now soft material hugging narrow hips and powerful legs.

      Gorgeous, she reaffirmed in her mind.

      “Oh, hell?” she repeated, moving to stand behind the row of bins.

      Still glowering, Tux closed the distance remaining to the bins.

      “Do you own a bright blue shawl?” he said gruffly.

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Just answer the question.”

      Nancy planted her hands on her hips. “I certainly will not. If you’re attempting to sell shawls, you’ve got a lot to learn about how to approach potential customers, mister. You’re rude, pure and simple. Goodbye.”

      Tux stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, then looked at the woman again.

      “I’m sorry,” he said. “Let me start over. I’m Tux Bishop.”

      “Nancy Shatner,” she said, eyeing him warily.

      “Hello, Nancy.” Tux paused. “Do you own a bright blue shawl?”

      “Goodbye, Mr. Bishop,” she said, folding her arms beneath her breasts.

      “No, no, wait,” he said, raising both hands. “I’m not selling anything.”

      “That’s good,” she said dryly, “because with your oh-socharming personality you couldn’t pay the rent by being a salesman.” She leaned slightly toward him. “Just what exactly is it that you want?”

      Oh, lady, Tux thought, that was not a terrific question for a beautiful woman to ask a red-blooded, healthy man. With no stretch of the imagination whatsoever, he could visualize