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

Sorry for the wait ;-;

Sega’s head tilted as she spoke, his ears twitching toward the slow rhythm of her voice. She did not smell of danger—only blood, damp soil, and weariness. He studied her a moment longer, the wind pulling through his fur, carrying her scent to him again.
You far from home, he said at last, his words low, rough-edged. Wind carry your hurt.
He stepped closer, deliberate but not imposing, the weight of his paws pressing soft into the brittle grass. His gaze dropped to her paw, where the scent of blood lingered thick. No healer here, he went on, his accent thick, his common halting between breaths. But… I help. You lean.
He turned his shoulder toward her, solid and broad, an unspoken invitation.
Golden eyes flicked briefly to the horizon, then back to her. Valley safe, he murmured. You rest. Not alone.