Yellow Rose of Texas

A/N #1: While I'm pretty sure it's canon that (like Matt and Abby), Wyatt is slightly younger than Lucy, for the purposes of this story, he's a couple years older. The inspiration for this new AU multi-chapter story came from a couple of my fave gifs of "Cowboy" Wyatt. Never written this far back in the past before, so I've been doing a lot of research (shout out to fellow author, the very talented Lyatt1941, who has packed her fic, "Stranded" with so many fascinating historical facts and makes it look easy). One last thing before we get started: I'm pleased to announce this is my 55th Timeless fanfic...

Prologue

Brady, Texas

Christmas Day 1880

Tightening the dark red knitted scarf around his neck that Gran made him for Christmas against the damp, chilly wind whipping in and around the low hills surrounding the ranch, Wyatt knelt by the modest wooden cross marking a well-tended grave. He wondered absently if they might see some snow flurries by nightfall. Carefully placing a slim bundle of fragrant pine sprigs tied with a red velvet ribbon at the base of the cross, he gently traced neatly carved letters that read:

Jessica Mary Logan - Wife

B. 1856 D. 1879

Matthew Wyatt Logan - Son

B. 1878 D. 1879

"Merry Christmas, Jess," Wyatt began, clearing his throat self consciously before falling silent. Gazing at the cross, he felt the usual pangs of sorrow and regret that lingered still in his heart since losing his wife and son to a virulent outbreak of measles that had swept through central Texas around 18 months ago. Patrolling along the Texas-Oklahoma border west of Wichita Falls with his battalion, by the time Wyatt had gotten word Jess and Matthew had taken sick and raced home, it was too late. His wife and son were dead. Gone from this world just like that. Jess, so pretty and gentle, was only 22, and their sweet-tempered son but a few months old.

Thank God his grandparents, James and Betsy Sherwin, who'd raised him from the age of three when his Mama and Daddy died from cholera, had been spared. It was some consolation to the young, grief-stricken widower, who struggled mightily to make sense of his inherently senseless loss. Beneath his gratitude the elderly couple were safe, the overwhelming grief and guilt he felt over losing his wife and child nearly destroyed Wyatt. Even though common sense told him otherwise, he couldn't shake the (admittedly far-fetched) notion that perhaps Jess and little Matthew could've been saved if he hadn't been on duty a hundred miles away when they took sick.

Serving as a Captain in the Texas Rangers for going on five years by that time, as an officer, he'd been granted two months' leave of absence to take care of the funeral arrangements. Once Jess and Matthew had been laid to rest together in a single plot in the family cemetery just over the rise from his grandparents' farm house, Wyatt Logan fell into a whiskey bottle (or ten) and didn't crawl out for nearly a month.

In spite of the church ladies fixing him enough food to feed a dozen men, every bite seemed to stick in his throat, choking him something fierce until he finally gave up and stuck to the alcohol–which went down a hell of a lot easier. As the endless, agonizing hours passed at what felt like a snail's pace, in his miserable solitude, he wondered at times how God could be so cruel to take from him the two people he loved most in this world, until the day Gramps had shown up on Wyatt's doorstep and knocked some sense into his head...

Flashback

June 1879

It took a few minutes for the brisk knocking on the front door to penetrate his drunken stupor. Sprawled on the faded rag rug beside his son's sturdy wooden cradle clutching one of the baby's tiny, soft cotton gowns to his chest, Wyatt blinked sluggishly, frowning at the loud, insistent noise. The hell? Why couldn't everybody just leave him alone to grieve in peace?

It took some effort, but eventually he managed to get to his feet and stagger to the front door. Clumsily yanking it open, Wyatt was dismayed to see his grandpa. Even slightly drunk, he felt himself squirm uncomfortably under the older man's kind, yet penetrating gaze. "What the hell do you want?" he growled sullenly after a minute, turning away from the open door without waiting for an answer and sinking into a rocking chair by the fireplace. The chair where Jess would rock their baby son to sleep every night...

Dropping his head into his hands, Wyatt heard the door close, barely registering the feel of Gramps' large, calloused hand briefly resting on his back before he took a seat in the other chair and regarded his grandson wordlessly. The room was awkwardly quiet save for the measured ticking of the elegant silverplate clock on the mantel above the fireplace (a wedding gift from his grandparents). His wife had loved that clock.

Wyatt sighed, involuntarily wrinkling his nose at the bitter stink of whiskey on his breath. His limp shirt and pants were none too fresh, either, and impaired or not, he was self aware enough to experience a quick flash of relief Gran hadn't made the trip into town with her husband. Probably would've yanked on Wyatt's ear and made him strip down while she heated water for a long overdue bath. He shuddered at the distressing thought of his diminutive, no-nonsense grandma treating him like an unruly child.

A few more minutes passed as the two men sat staring at the unlit fireplace without speaking. Whatever brought his grandpa into town from the ranch to see him on this day, the man had the veritable patience of a blessed saint and was probably prepared to sit and watch his only grandson in silence until nightfall if that's what it took. Best to get it over with, Logan, Wyatt told himself wearily.

"Sorry for cursing at you, sir," he muttered guiltily after a while, straightening with a grimace and tiredly rubbing the back of his neck. Drinking until he passed out in a chair or likelier still, on the chilly planked bedroom floor every night because Wyatt couldn't bear the thought of climbing into the big oak framed bed he and Jess shared-the bed where their son was conceived and born just a few short months ago–was getting to be pure hell on his back. Barely 26 years old, he felt at least twice his age or more...maybe even older in mind and body than Gramps, who turned 65 at the turn of the year (but always looked and acted younger). Dear God, would he feel this way forever?

Inclining his head at the mumbled, yet apparently sincere enough, apology, James gazed at his grandson for a long moment. "Have to say, you're looking pretty rough around the edges, son," he observed lightly. When Wyatt didn't respond, he sighed and tried again.

"Wyatt, look, I know your heart's broken and you're grieving something terrible for Jess and little Mattie, but it's been weeks now since they passed, and well, your Gran and I are worried about you, and your friends are, too. Rufus tells me you left your horse at the stable to be taken care of, which you know full well is not the way you were raised. Probably a small mercy, though, you had enough sense to take him there because I imagine that animal is in better shape right now than his owner. While I'm sure the good ladies of the church have been bringing food by for you, the way that grimy shirt's hanging off your shoulders, doesn't look like you've bathed or eaten in days, although from the fumes coming off you and the empty bottles I see laying here and there, you seem to be getting plenty to drink," James said with a meaningful glance around them.

Even in the depths of his faint shame over the well-deserved rebuke, Wyatt's lips twitched unwillingly at his grandpa's usual plain speaking and dry sense of humor. His amusement was short lived, however...

Leaning forward in his chair, James Sherwin got down to business, cutting through Wyatt's visible pain and self pity with the precision of a fancy East Coast doctor. "Alright then, I'll say straight out what I came here for...enough is enough, Wy. The people who love and respect you have let you be these past weeks to grieve in your own way for Jess and Matthew. God alone knows the heavy burden he's placed on you, but son, while it might feel like it right now, your life is not over. You're a young man yet, and meant for more in this life than to drink yourself to death. It's time to pick yourself up and rejoin the world. And forgive me for saying so, but you know it's what Jessica would've wanted. You are not alone in this, son. You still have Gran and me, and along with your friends, we will do whatever it takes to get you back on your feet."

Mercifully for Wyatt, who was helpless to stem the tide of jagged emotions piercing his heart, James fell silent at last, letting his grandson chew on his words for a spell, politely pretending not to see him swiping hastily at the hot tears abruptly slipping down his scruffy cheeks. Once Wyatt regained his composure somewhat, the older man got to his feet and held out his hand. "My first guess is we better start with a hot meal after you wash off the stink and put on some fresh clothes. Just between us men, it's probably a blessing your grandma was too busy with her canning this morning to accompany me," His grandpa informed him wryly with a twinkle in the deep blue eyes he'd passed down to his only grandson.

Wyatt closed his own itchy, tear-stained blue eyes and thought briefly of his pretty, blonde-haired young wife. I will always love you and our son, Jess, but Gramps is right-I need to try and live without you as best I can...he promised her earnestly as he bid Jess a final goodbye in his heart. Taking the firm hand his grandpa held out, for the first time since losing her and Matthew, Wyatt let himself take a deep, cleansing breath–vaguely surprised to feel what he thought might be a few faint glimmers of acceptance and just maybe, hope for the future.

It took several days after that, but gradually Wyatt managed to pull himself together, starting with emptying the alcohol bottles he hadn't opened yet in a corner of the back yard. His hard-drinking fellow Rangers would be pretty damn unhappy to see him wasting perfectly good whiskey, Wyatt considered with a grin before grimacing at hazy memories of staying drunk more often than not for days at a time during the past month. In that very moment, he made a fervent vow to himself to stay away from the stuff except on special occasions.

His first real challenge actually came later that same week, the sad day Wyatt forced himself to carefully pack up all of his loved ones' things in a large leather trunk. It wasn't easy, and his hands shook something fierce, but he got through it. Borrowing a wagon off Rufus at the stable, Wyatt hauled the trunk, the light pine cradle Gramps had lovingly made for Matthew before he was born, and his wife's beloved rocking chair out to the ranch and stowed them under an old quilt in a corner of his grandparents' barn. Ready or not, his bereavement leave was nearly over, and all that remained for Wyatt to do was to close up his small house before returning to duty with the Rangers.

Luckily for his masculine pride, he'd at least tried to put the house somewhat to rights before his grandma and her best friend, Miss Clara, the church organist, showed up out of the blue to clean the place from top to bottom-despite Wyatt's immediate protests. "Aww, now, Gran," he sputtered, a hot blush warming his face, "It's not necessary for you and Miss Clara to go to all this trouble. You know full well I'm leaving on Sunday after church services and won't be back this way until probably end of summer. The house is fine...it's not like anyone will be here while I'm gone..." To his dismay, without warning, Wyatt's throat felt painfully tight at saying the stark, hurtful words out loud, and he swallowed thickly, mortified at showing his emotions in front of the two elderly women.

With a pointed glance at her good friend–someone who'd known Wyatt since he came to live with his grandparents as a child-who merely nodded in understanding and sat on the sagging porch swing in order to give them some privacy, his grandma stepped inside. Elizabeth Sherwin–known practically since birth as Betsy–was barely five feet tall and still a trim beauty though she had to be a couple years past 60...and the only mother Wyatt could remember.

Retrieving a fresh white hankie with tiny blue flowers from her knitted reticule, Betsy silently offered it to her grandson who reluctantly took it and turning away from her, discreetly wiped at the corners of his eyes. Taking a seat on the worn brown plush settee in front of the window, she eyed him thoughtfully while he blew his nose and shoved the used hankie in his pocket.

"I can tell you're embarrassed, but that wasn't my intention, Wyatt," Gran said calmly, with an encouraging smile. "Now, your grandpa and I have been discussing your situation, and thought it was likely you haven't made a decision yet what to do with your house." She ignored the way Wyatt's shoulders instinctively stiffened at her words. "I imagine you might be torn between never wanting to live here again without Jess and Mattie, and yet, at the same time, it's too painful to think of anybody else moving in." When he opened his mouth to reply, Betsy held up a small hand. "I'm not finished speaking, young man," she scolded primly.

Chagrined at being reprimanded (at his age!) but knowing better than to sass his grandma, Wyatt subsided, settling for grumbling softly under his breath instead. Once he heard Gran's suggestion to keep the place cleaned and looked after regularly until he had a couple weeks' leave from the Rangers in the fall and returned to Brady, Wyatt felt some of his worries ease. Waiting the rest of the summer to decide about the house he'd bought for Jess before they married did sound pretty sensible to him. Spending a couple months riding the frontier with the men in his battalion would give him some much-needed distance and breathing room from all the memories this place held for Wyatt...and a chance to consider things with a clear head. Yes, indeed, his grandma was a very wise woman.

Kneeling in front of her, Wyatt wrapped his arms firmly around Betsy's narrow shoulders and whispered in her ear, "I think that's a fine idea, Gran. And because I probably forget to say it very often, thank you for loving me and always taking good care of me since the day I came to live with you and Gramps. I love you." Now it was Betsy who sniffed loudly and grabbed for the hankie Wyatt pulled from his pocket and held out with a knowing grin.

And just as his grandparents had predicted, with the slow passage of time, Wyatt's aching heart did begin to mend, and he eventually came to the (perhaps inevitable) conclusion the tidy little house would make a fine home for someone–just not him. Ever. So Wyatt's few belongings and prized possessions were moved into his old room at the farm house back on the ranch. From then on, whenever he wasn't away from Brady with the Rangers, his leaves from duty were spent with his grandparents, an arrangement that ended up serving them all quite well when James took a bad fall from one of the horses and broke his left arm not quite a year after Wyatt sold his house in the fall of '79.

Over Gramps' vehement protests, Wyatt quickly resigned his commission with the Rangers, and came home to Brady for good to run the Sherwin ranch. Even if he hadn't been dog tired from nearly seven rough, oftentimes violent years of dealing with range wars, blood feuds, cattle thieves, lynch mobs and the like, the unmistakable relief Wyatt glimpsed in his Gran's eyes made his choice an easy one. This was the best solution for everyone—and the very least he could do for the couple who'd taken Wyatt in and given him a loving, Christian home.

To his surprise, while he'd naturally been raised around and riding horses since the tender age of three, Wyatt found the challenge of running a horse ranch to be a real pleasure. Every day since leaving the Rangers had a peaceful, comforting sameness to it, except on Sundays when Wyatt would hitch up the buggy and the family attended church services in Brady. Sometimes on Saturday nights, he'd join his good friends Rufus and Dave Baumgardner, the town sheriff, at Miss Emma's saloon for a few hands of poker.

Of course, it was a source of loving irritation to him that Gran wasn't above trying her hand at a little bit of matchmaking now and then whenever a female between the ages of 16 and 30 arrived in town, but Wyatt held firm. Sweet Jess had been it for him, and while he cherished those brief years spent together as man and wife and adored the baby boy their love created, he had absolutely no interest in getting married or having a child ever again...

End Flashback

Shaking his head at the somber memory, Wyatt tried again. "Anyway, we've had a nice day, a nice Christmas. Gran made a fine meal. Dave and Rufus ate enough for six men and still had room for a couple pieces of mince pie...each." Wyatt grinned at the way his friends were arguing over the last piece while he put on his coat and new scarf and slipped away from the house to visit the tiny cemetery as he did at least once a week.

Falling silent once more, he looked up at the dark gray clouds scudding across the sky and let bittersweet memories of past Christmases wash over him. There had been so many good holidays over the years spent with his grandparents while he was growing up, and then, later on, with Jess. Never one to look inwardly too often, to Wyatt's surprise, upon a closer examination, while his heart still twinged now and again, today, he found more love and warmth residing there than pain. Not only that, but despite the sorrow of losing his wife after being married for only a few short years, Wyatt was nonetheless so very grateful for the time they'd been together–more than some men were ever blessed with.

Clearing his throat once more, Wyatt whispered, "Well, guess I better get back to the house now, honey, and see if Gran saved me a piece of that pie before the boys ate it all. I love you and our Matthew so much, Jess, and miss you both every single day. Merry Christmas, my love." Getting to his feet, he paused for a moment before tenderly patting the wooden cross and making his way back to the house, feeling somewhat lighter in spirit than he had before now that the holiday was nearly over and he could tuck away the memories for another year. Maybe next Christmas, the ache in his heart would be just a little easier to bear, he mused wistfully...

A/N #2: Don't worry, Timeless friends, we'll meet Lucy in Chapter 2. I hope you enjoyed the opening chapter because I am so excited about this new story :) For those readers still following First Steps, I have already started the next chapter of that in addition to working on this fic. My sincere appreciation to those of you still interested in reading stories about Wyatt and Lucy. The characters continue to be a joy to write about :))