Bitterroot Valley who's never left home, who's never struck out?

The call threaded through the valley, thin and aching, and Sega’s head rose from where he lingered beneath the pines. His golden eyes narrowed, ears pivoting toward the cry. It was not the call of strength, but of pain—sour and salt-sweet, marked with fear.
He moved. Heavy paws pressed into the frost, each step rolling with the quiet certainty of a mountain cat. His scar-lined muzzle lifted to taste the air, and soon the scent reached him: blood, sharp and coppery, carried with the faint musk of a woman.
When he found her, she was folded into the brittle grass, a pale shape rimmed in red. His gaze dropped to the wound, then rose back to her face. He came slow, careful, his massive shoulders hunched so as not to loom, but still there was no hiding the size of him—the breadth of chest, the scars that crossed his hide.
Sega’s voice came rough.
You hurt.
He paused, golden eyes steady.
You call… I come.