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

Sega shifted his weight slightly as her shoulder pressed into his, steadying her without effort. Her warmth against his fur was slight—fragile, like something the wind might carry away if he weren’t careful.
Angel, he repeated, testing the shape of it on his tongue. His voice came low, roughened by the cold, but not unkind. I am Sega.
He glanced down at her paw again, then to the slope ahead. The climb was not steep, but the frost would make it cruel if she stumbled. So, he moved slowly, his pace set to match hers.
When she spoke of repayment, he only gave a faint shake of his head. No debt, he said simply. Hunter help traveler. That is way. His words came broken, but his tone left no room for protest.
The valley stretched open below them now, mist curling between the trees and pale grass glinting with ice. Sega paused to let her breathe, his golden eyes sweeping the quiet expanse before them.
You rest here soon, he murmured, nodding toward a sheltered rise ahead. Den's warm there. You stay, heal.
Then, after a heartbeat, a flicker of something like humor softened his expression. Maybe then, he added, you tell me story. Where Angel come from.