Chapter 7: Business Credibility

The United States, flanked by the Atlantic and Pacific boasts vast plains and the Mississippi River, ideal for agriculture and ranching. To the north, the Great Lakes nurture dairy farms; to the south, the Gulf of Mexico ushers in warm, humid currents. 

For Sheffield, the challenge lay in reconciling the altered history shaped by his ancestor's meddling with his original knowledge. Two extra years of Civil War had reshaped Texas, the South, and the nation—though global ripples remained faint. 

The Sheffield family's influence stretched improbably far: cozy ties with Britain (as Confederate sympathizers), Tsarist Russia, Austria-Hungary, and the Ottoman Empire—nations often at odds. Britain's connection was obvious—the Confederacy had banked on Anglo-French intervention. The rest? Forged through Annabelle's pre-war human trafficking. Abandoning African slave routes, she'd redirected ships to import Poles, Ukrainians and Balkan minorities from Europe's empires reshaping Texas' demographics. 

"Drained Europe's unrest to stabilize our backyard," Sheffield muttered, marveling at the geopolitical sleight-of-hand. Like a vampire sucking rivals dry. But global ambitions could wait. First, consolidate power at home. 

America's coasts offered divergent futures. The Atlantic-facing East, with its European trade, dwarfed the Gulf's potential (limited to Cuba and Haiti) and the untapped Pacific West. 'California's gold lies dormant until we seize Hawaii ' he mused eyeing a map. 'But Spain's flag in our backyard? Unacceptable.'

A knock interrupted. Martin, the ever-resourceful driver, slipped in. "Master William… Mexican rumba dancers are in Arlington. They say it's… educational." 

Sheffield raised an eyebrow. Rumba—the sensual Latin dance parents later banned for teens. "You just want a ticket, don't you?" 

Martin grinned. "The venue's… selective about patrons." 

"Cultural exchange it is." Sheffield stood, brushing dog hair off his suspenders. His dog—loyal, smart, and mercifully non-territorial, yipped farewell. 

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Meanwhile, in the manor's parlor, Isabella faced a Northern envoy. 

"Mr. James" she drawled "what brings Standard Oil to our humble farmland ?" 

The visitor smirked. "Everyone knows nothing happens in Texas without Sheffield consent. Your family's… integration by its founders was… efficient." 

Isabella's smile chilled. "We're simple agrarians, unlike Rockefeller. Who crushed entire industries with Low buy-high sell, although easy in theory. Few execute it so… ruthlessly." 

James countered "Like how your family displaced the founding fathers of texas" .James leaned forward a bit "We want to propose a partnership. With your reach in the South—" 

"—The entire South. " Isabella corrected. "But given Standard Oil's… reputation, we'll need time to consider." 

"Reputation?" James barked a laugh. "Mr. Rockefeller funds a Negro women's college in Atlanta! Philanthropy defines us." 

"Ah yes." Isabella's voice turned glacial. "How kind of him to rebuild what his Yankee generals burned." 

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