A dust plume signaled the approach of a rig up the long gravel road to Sierra's ranch house. In a few minutes, she recognized Otsoa's pickup and smiled in anticipation of seeing the Basque piano tuner again. He usually came by each spring and fall to tune her Steinway baby grand that had been in the family for three generations. She never knew when he would arrive, he had no phone. He came when the time was right. This time, she left a message with his friend.

It was just midsummer, but she felt like having him check it again as the weather had been unusually humid. Besides, she loved watching him care for her piano. He was an artisan, a master craftsman, of which there were dwindling numbers in the tech/digital age.

Otsoa lived in a small cabin out on the edge of the desert sagebrush of Basque country. The Basque settled in this region in the 1880s as nomadic sheepherders on the open range. Over time, they developed large ranches in the furthest back-country and stayed pretty much to themselves. They were hard workers and raised some of the best horses in the area. Even though they didn't mix much with other ranchers, if someone had troubles, they were the first to arrive, often uncalled.

He would ease his dusty, beat-up, old pick up in next to her shiny, new SUV. It looked like it couldn't make it back to the highway, but it would probably long outlast her SUV. His care of pianos and machines was meticulous. He would walk to her door carrying a battered leather satchel of mostly handcrafted tools. Barely glancing at her, he kept his gaze down and would go straight into the piano room.

Sierra couldn't tell his age. His steel blue eyes looked 20, but his short silver hair, sun weathered skin, and deep wrinkles on his face could make him 90. His name meant 'wolf' in English, and it fit him well. His movements were graceful and precise. His eyes were keen and clear. Even though he had been caring for her piano for years, they rarely talked. He was focused on the piano, caressing it like a lover and whispering Basque that she didn't understand. Sometimes it took an hour, sometimes it took four hours, depending on its condition. When she tried to pay him more for his time, he handed the extra back, saying, "Not needed."

When he finished, he'd take a soft rag and lovingly wipe every surface until it met his high standard. Then, he'd carefully pack his tools, telling her, "She is fine now," as he walked out the door.

Sierra hadn't met anyone like him and didn't quite know what to do or say when he was there. She was 40 years old, a happily married rancher's wife with three kids. She ran a several hundred thousand acre ranch and could ride, rope, brand, and deliver calves in zero degrees in a foot of snow with the best of the cowboys. When Otsoa entered her house, she could barely form a complete sentence. As he worked, she pretended to be doing something in the kitchen, but really, she watched his every move.

On this day, Otsoa approached the piano and paused, looking it over with a careful eye. He sat down and slowly stroked the keyboard before resting his hands there. Starting with a few simple scales, he ran the length of the keyboard, stopping occasionally, cocking his head to the side before continuing. He sat for a moment, gazing out the window, possibly listening to the echoes of notes reverberate through the room.

He followed with a simple tune that grew into a complex pattern of rolling sounds. He pushed the edge of the piano's capacity and it responded with the cleanest, clearest tones she had ever heard. Sierra had played her whole life and hadn't heard anything quite like what he could coax from the instrument.

When he stopped, he took his rag and slowly wiped the keyboard clean. She was startled when he motioned her over, not knowing he saw her watching. This time, his steel blue eyes looked directly at her without moving.

"She is fine," he said and paused, holding her gaze. "Why did you call for me?" His voice was calm, yet very firm.

Suddenly, Sierra felt like a schoolgirl and couldn't think of an answer. She fumbled around, finally saying, "A...the weather's been humid."

Otsoa shook his head. He looked so deeply into her, she shivered, wanting to look away, but knowing she couldn't. He raised a callused finger and traced her cheekbones and brow. Shuddering at his touch, she closed her eyes as his fingers moved across her face, like they roamed the keyboard. As he lifted her chin, she opened her eyes and he brought his lips to hers and stopped. Her body trembled at this lightest touch and she felt herself melting inside as he wrapped his arms around her.

As he broke the kiss, he led her to the piano bench, sitting her down beside him. She felt unsteady, leaning into his leg and side for support. He started to play a different tune, something she hadn't heard before. It was a wandering melody that floated at times before returning to the ground of deep bass notes. It moved from gentle mist over water to an intense storm cleansing the sky and back again. The vibrations of the sounds found their way to her heart and she felt it begin to open. Sierra had no idea how long he played, it could have been five minutes or three hours. When he stopped, she felt tears trickling down her face. With a gentle touch, Otsoa brushed them away.

Looking deeply into her eyes, he softly said, "Now, you play."

She wasn't sure she could move, but knew better than not follow his command. She brought her trembling hands to the keyboard and froze. There was nothing there. She started to panic. Otsoa put one hand on her chest and the other on her lower belly.

"Breathe," he said. She did, feeling the warmth of his hands penetrate her core. After a few breaths, one note appeared. With another breath, a second note followed. As the warmth inside her increased, the notes began spilling out and started to flow. When she stopped, she remembered he was sitting next to her. Turning, she saw a small tear at the corner of his twinkling blue eyes and a broad smile.

Otsoa raised her up to stand between his spread legs and her heart started racing. He took both of her hands and carefully squeezed and rubbed each finger before kissing them. He looked up into her eyes and said, "These are a gift from Heaven," as he continued massaging her hands. He lifted her to straddle his lap, her body shivering at the contact between them. Her forehead rested on his as her breathing matched his breath. Her pelvis pushed against his hardness and her body trembled in anticipation. She waited, unsure, teetering on the precipice of the unknown.

Exhaling deeply, she slid the gold band off her finger and placed it on the piano as she turned and brought her lips against his and the crescendo began to build. This time, his kiss was not so gentle and her body didn't want gentle. She reveled in the smell of him: dirt, sagebrush and smoke. His taste was a deep, rich, earthy flavor. He took possession of her mouth and she willingly surrendered.

His hands roamed her back and hips like he played the keyboard; her body responded as if being played and rejoiced that he could call forth such feeling and vibration. He pushed her edge and the resonance spiraled. Otsoa led her to the couch and they quickly undressed. She lay back, shivering, watching his sinewy, tanned muscles appear and saw his eyes change to a predator, a wolf circling it's prey. A moment of fear arose, which was quickly replaced by a wave of complete submission and an overpowering lust as she opened her legs wider.

As he entered her, she gasped and felt her body lunge forward, her legs wrapping around his waist. With every thrust, another layer of an unknown tension faded away, leading to a deep, warm, dark cavern that felt like home. His face was inches from hers, his eyes piercing to that same depth. She felt pinned, unable to move, nor wanting to. Otsoa rolled over, pulling her on top and she sighed, settling comfortably into his pelvis, feeling his cock pierce her more deeply. Rotating her hips in a circle, she could feel a vibration like thunder forming from their joining start to rise through her body. The vibration pushed her movements and she gave it full rein, like letting her mare race full speed across the open desert.

His hands roughly massaged her breasts and his eyes pushed her further until, approaching the crest, she froze, arched, screaming her release and collapsing on him, her body heaving, panting and sweating with the ride. His hands kindly stroked her as she curled into his chest, seeking stable ground to rest on.

When he rose and slowly began to dress, she couldn't move, watching him carefully and precisely put each piece of clothing in place: the faded blue jeans and tattered shirt, the suspenders, red bandanna and a felt cap on his head. She saw him slowly transform from a wolf/lover back into the Basque piano tuner.

Finished, he took her hand, bringing her to stand, her naked body pressed into his. He lovingly stroked her face, cheeks and eyes. Lightly kissing her forehead, he looked deeply into her eyes and said, "You are fine now."

Picking up his leather satchel, he walked through the door, leaving a dust plume as he drove his battered pickup back to the highway.

Sierra stood where he had left her for some time, her body needing to re-form, her mind needing to settle, and her spirit needing to find a new way to be. Eventually, she walked to the piano, running her hand along the curved top, whispering basque words that she was starting to understand. Then, she slipped the gold band back on her finger and sat down to play.