Hushed Willows I'll stake rare toothpicks in my dirt-filled heart

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?