When he was not tending to his wife, Boone had begun to busy himself with tasks. Border marking, always strengthening the edges of their new claim; filling caches with small prey, things he could hunt on his own; gathering supplies, necessary things for the incoming winter. Frigidity had already fallen upon the mountains, frost clinging to the pines and to the guard hairs that ripple across his spine. A rough season was to be expected, he thought, and so the last thing he wanted was to be ill-prepared.
He is separating the hide from a beaver when Reverie happens upon him, teeth caught along the edge as he smooths it down flat with the motion of a heavy paw. He'd leave it along the ledge to dry out for a few days, if snow or sleet did not find them first. Hey, he drinks in the sight of her only momentarily before he realizes quickly that something is very, very wrong; his throat constricts. what-- what happened?

Blossom.
Alright, alright, c'mere, near instantaneously, Boone's attention is ripped from the pelt at his feet and now rests upon his wife. His arms open in an invitation and she falls into his chest, temple against sternum. we'll find her, alright? It'll be okay. Maybe she just hasn't learned the boundaries of the territory yet. or, perhaps, it was a symptom of teenage rebellion, but he wasn't about to suggest it.
After a time, he pries himself from her grasp and motions for her to lead him where she last caught a sign of her presence. There was no time for panic, not now, not when his wife still hobbled with ribbons of resistant pain; not when his stepdaughter needed him.

His nose is pressed firmly to the cracked earth, muscles trembling beneath skin as he hoists himself over the rocks wedged between monstrous peaks. Reverie is unsure.
His flank brushes against her as if to say I've got you.
He takes the lead, then; pushing himself past her with the offering of his shoulder for her to lean on, should she need it. Between the spruces he searches for figures buried beneath brush, a clump of blonde fur, something, any sign — and when that does not work, his head tips skyward and from his throat a baying call is sent out into the world. Surely Blossom would have to answer, right?

A break in the trees reveals smears of scarlet and two bodies — still warm, still breathing. Children. Blossom.
And a girl he'd never seen before.
Oh, Jesus Christ, crouching, breathless, his neck cranes in search of his wife with a new surge of panic thrumming in his veins. get your herbs. We've got a problem here.