Lance buttons his wool coat. “I’ll just watch, I promise.”

In the end, though, he can’t resist trailing after Robbie into the straw-strewn stall and petting the calf’s warm, white fur while she nurses the bottle. She’s standing with sturdy balance, and her eyes are bright. When the bottle is empty, she bawls in protest and butts her head so hard against Robbie’s legs that he has to take a backward step.

“What a little fighter,” Lance says, grinning. “It almost makes me want to change her name.”

“What?” Robbie frowns. “No. Her name is Baby.”

Lance, who hadn’t realized Robbie had latched onto something already, groans. “No. She won’t be a baby forever. Her name is Bubbles.” When Robbie just stares, Lance rolls his eyes. “Because of the tub.”

“I don’t remember any bubbles.”

“Come on, it’s an adorable name.”

“So is Baby.”

“No.”

Robbie rubs the calf’s head, tipping his head toward the stall door to beckon Lance out while she’s still distracted. Then, he quickly slips out after him, sliding the door shut before the calf can follow. She gives a low, disappointed moo, then licks the milk off her upper lip with that remarkably long black tongue.

A grin spreads over Lance’s face. “I know what we should call her.”

Robbie looks at him askance. “I told you, her name’s—”

“Felony,” Lance supplies, and to his delight, Robbie bursts out laughing.

Lance can’t find the right segue back to the topic of the future. Hoping it will help him think, and figuring that it’s definitely his turn to feed them, he insists on making dinner. He enjoys Robbie waiting on him, but he doesn’t want to seem entirely useless.

Robbie, seeming to expect a show, settles on one of the stools across the counter to watch. Lance opens a drawer at random, and blinks at the unexpected sight of a Christmas card.

“Is this from Johnny?” Lance muses, holding it up. Sending an overly formal card with gilt edges seems like the kind of prank that Johnny would find amusing. But when Lance sees Robbie’s grimace, his smile falls.

Robbie shakes his head. “No. My uncle. Go ahead, you can read it.”

Lance hesitates, but Robbie seems sincere, so he unfolds the card and skims the message. There’s a printed script that reads Season’s Greetings!, and below that, in a cursive so elegant that it looks like calligraphy: Best wishes to the honorable custodian of my ancestral home.

He looks up at Robbie, brows raised. “Wow. That’s not very subtle.”

Robbie laughs mirthlessly and rubs his beard, leaning his elbows against the counter. “No, it’s not, is it?”

“He sends these every year?”

Robbie nods.

“Damn. What a stone-cold douchebag. But why keep it?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I kept them all. I had a whole stack in the house, and when this one came, I had that same…urge. I don’t know, it seemed like I needed the reminder, I guess?”