Before Lance can stew any longer, the door opens and Robbie comes in, stomping the snow off his boots. The floorboards around the doorway really need to be tiled over, or at least sealed, Lance thinks absently while he watches Robbie emerge from the cocoon of coat and coveralls. He’s holding an old metal coffee can protectively against his chest, like it’s full of gold.

“Any luck?” Lance asks in a hushed voice, as if he’s trying not to wake a baby, even though the calf is a calf, not a human infant, and she’s not even asleep.

“Well, she didn’t break my legs kicking me,” Robbie says, and then grins ruefully. “Just bruised me some.”

Lance’s eyes widen in alarm. “Are you okay?” He’s forgotten to whisper, and he’s halfway to his feet before Robbie’s voice stops him.

“I’m just kidding,” he says hurriedly. “Sorry. Don’t worry about me.”

Lance settles slowly back down to the floor, then scoots a little closer to the calf so that he can reach inside the towel she’s wrapped in and stroke her side. He can feel her ribs through her coat, which is already mostly dry.

Robbie goes to the kitchen, washes his hands, and opens and closes a drawer. When he comes back, he has his coffee can, which is maybe a quarter full of pale liquid, and a small dish rag. He gets down on the floor opposite Lance, sets his supplies carefully to one side, and finally pulls the calf’s head and shoulders up into his lap.

Lance rests his chin on his knee, watching with fascination as Robbie’s large, gentle hands move—one cupping the calf’s jaw, his thumb coaxing down her jaw. With his other hand, Robbie makes a point out of one corner of the rag and dunks it in the milk. Then he puts the wet cloth against the cup of her tongue.

The calf’s eyelashes flutter and she struggles in Robbie’s grip, but weakly. He holds her firmly, rubbing the cloth against her tongue. When she doesn’t seem to get the hint, he slides his thumb down her tongue beside the cloth.

That does the trick. Her eyes go wide and she abruptly clamps her mouth closed around his thumb and the rag, then begins sucking aggressively. Robbie laughs and winces at the same time, tugging free of her mouth after a few seconds.

“Good girl.” He dips the rag in the milk again and repeats the process.

By the time he’s wrung the last of the can’s contents into her mouth, the calf seems exhausted again. Her eyes drift closed. She makes a tiny, contented mooing sound as she lowers her head, draping her neck over Robbie’s thigh. He and Lance’s eyes meet; they share identical smiles.

“I think I love her,” Lance blurts in a whisper.

Robbie breathes out a laugh. He rubs the calf’s neck with his splayed fingers. “She’s definitely a cute little thing,” he murmurs in agreement.

Robbie and Lance pet her another moment, ruffling her coat, moving their hands in intersecting circles without touching one another. Then, Robbie rearranges her towel nest a bit and slides her back into it. She is as boneless as a plush toy, eyes firmly closed now. Lance positions her legs in a way that looks a little more comfortable, though he’s mostly guessing since he doesn’t have four legs and he’s pretty sure all of the joints on the two he does have are in different places.